The Principles of Reasoning Deduction
by BackwardEDGE
Summary: As a boy he knew of seventy three ways in which he could kill a grown man. Eight years on and the Kvatch City Guard Investigator knows of two hundred and forty six, period. From the bloodied building blocks of his youth to the crimson slicked profession of his manhood - how a boy becomes a monster, and a monster, a man.
1. Prologue: He gets it from his father

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

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_As a boy he knew of seventy three ways in which he could kill a grown man. Eight years on and the Kvatch City Guard Investigator knows of two hundred and forty six, period. From the bloodied building blocks of his youth to the crimson slicked profession of his manhood - how a boy becomes a monster, and a monster, a man._

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**Disclaimer:**  
TES: Oblivion related characters and content all belong to Bethesda. Avis and Kat belong to me, so, unless you want to be missing fingers...

**Authors Note:**

Welp. Here we go _agaaaaaaaiiiin_~

Much like it's original, this version of TRoPD is just as gruesome, horrifying and generally all around psychopathic, therefore it will be knocked up to an M pretty early on. The prologue should be pretty decent for the sake of everyone and everything - but if the description wasn't enough of a warning, consider this;

If you don't like blood, guts, violence of anything bloody or gruesome - this fic is NOT for you. I don't believe in the whole "You gotta be eighteen or older, lies lies lies" stuff, but if you aren't comfortable with it, I quite simply wouldn't recommend it. I don't want to go upsetting people.

Honest!

Well... enjoy, I guess. Please remember to keep all arms inside the carriage at all times, fasten your seatbelt and enjoy the ride. The story begins 'in media res', or in laymans terms, near the end of the story - and kiddes? Cover your eyes, because thar be monsters in these lands.

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|** PART ONE** |  
**PROLOGUE**

HE GETS IT FROM HIS FATHER

Although he would prefer not to, he'll recall the day he met his Bodyguard, in perfectly clarity despite the gravity of the situation. Sat in the pews of the Chapel of Akatosh while a handful of his friends slowly die in the rooms surrounding him. He was with them when it happened and despite the mass slaughter, the sheer bloody violence, he suffered not but a scratch.

Part of him wishes that he was dying with them — he certainly deserves it.

It's odd though, he thinks, how people both defecate and fornicate all in one building. He's never been massively religious, especially not recently — far from it, but he doesn't find himself particularly surprised when he brings his hands up and proceeds to bow his head in silent prayer. He knows how; he grew up not far from here, he attended services with his father, and well, what else can he do? What could he possibly do to help those he unintentionally doomed?

He's not in a phenomenal form either, though he's hardly in a position to complain. Twenty-three years next winter, practically on the threshold of life and yet he's completely lost, unemployed, and to make matters all the better, Kvatch is far more... _different_ then he last remembers it. What has he got to his name? A few years of Mage's Guild education and a knack for Conjuration. It's not much, but before now, it was everything he ever needed. So praying to the gods he's previously denied for the past half a decade seems like a small, but never the less good step in the right direction.

Or, well. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Well... that's a pitiful sight and a fetching half."

Letting his jaw go slack, he jerks his head around to see the man — _well_, he's hardly a man at this point. He's a boy, if anything, at this current time. Though, that boy who speaks these words will one day become his impromptu Bodyguard, one of his closest confidants — one of the best Imperial Agents in modern history. Despite his whining, and his complaining, that boy will stick by his side through the worst of it, believe it or not... but, for now, he's none of these things. At this current moment in time, the boy is just a stranger wearing an unfamiliar face from the past. A stranger in a Kvatch City Guard uniform, a man caught in a boy's skin, with an impeccably shaved chin and a _really_ bad attitude to boot. There's blood on the left sleeve of his uniform and his nose is completely busted, crimson colours the bridge of his nose, smearing across towards his right cheekbone. His hands are covered in it too. Soaked.

Although he doesn't know it yet, it's a sight he'll come to get used to. You can only expect so much from Aurelius, after all.

You can only expect so much from Aurelius, after all.

"Praying is just some form of acquiescence that your too damn pathetic to do anything for them yourself." The Investigator says, dully and clinically, straight to the point with a clipped merciless bite. He walks forwards with an air of casual disinterest, one eyebrow ticking upwards when he scowls.

Of course, the Investigator is not always being unnecessarily cruel. It's just that he never needed to understand the gravity behind what he says, therefore never developed much empathy as a direct result. How could he? But he's not a lost case entirely; give the boy a few years and he'll learn the consequences. Even if, it would be a miracle if he decided to care about it either way.

He knows this from bitter experience.

But he doesn't. Not yet anyway. So he responds the same way as any other decent person would.

Astounded, or perhaps just disgusted, he shifts to glare at the Investigator properly. "And who are you to judge?" he nigh on spits, because there are people sick and dying and everything in between around them, and here the boy stands, all self-righteousness with a look of firm indifference plastered all-over his uneven adolescent face. At this point, he's actually nothing special. He has the markings of handsomeness, granted, the signs of prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw — but aside from that, he's nothing to pause over. Dark haired, a good amount of it at on the left side is disturbed and coarse. When he looks harder at the odd parting, he realises that the roots are red and matted with a fresh abrasion.

Someone took a good shot at him, but that amber eyed gaze doesn't seem to care either way. There's nothing special about him outwardly, but he's entirely unique.

"I am merely stating," he says, tone even and utterly void of anything even remotely compassionate. "That it will not work. So you might as well not."

The Investigator stares at him for a few moments, considering his gaze and then huffs.

"S'not that bad, you welp." and with that, his calculative gaze locks onto his face with attentive force "It's just blood."

It's just blood. It's just pain. It's not just pain. It's just life. Just death. Just everything, and just nothing.

Although the reasonably intelligent part of his mind decides against it, he turns towards a rather harassed looking brother and indicates towards the Investigator. "Can I get a bowl and some cloth?" The Investigator, in turn, looks at him with thinly veiled curiosity, which is all the better, because — now, he knows that if anyone was to get his full attention... it doesn't end well. Never does. As he turns back to look at him, he begins to wonder if the smugness is just a permanent dent in his face. "Don't get me wrong, I'm just a good person."

The Investigator doesn't do anything, doesn't blink, doesn't move. Just stares at him like he's some kind of enigma.

A few minutes of this pass, three eventually, before he grunts and indicates for the boy to sit down. He does, walking further along with that same expression of mild petulance. It's a very controlled series of motions, all of his steps are completely calculated and the sheer intensity of his gaze brings to light the genius pent up inside his head. As he dips the cloth into the bowl and hesitantly presses it to his skull, there is nothing either, not so much as a complaint, even when he deliberately presses down too hard. Placing his other hand against the back of the Investigator's head, he notices that the boy's hair is very sticky, so he takes pulls it away. His palm comes away red.

"You've had some form of medical training." The Investigator states, unblinking. "A healer, I presume. Though with little restoration experience... leaves me to believe you're a mage of a different calibre. Destruction perhaps? Or was it Conjuration?"

"I'm not in the mood for small talk."

"I don't care."

Expecting some kind of conflict, he looks straight at the Investigator, but the boy isn't looking at him anymore. His fiery amber gaze is locked on the bloody red cloth dangling just over his brow. As he continues to work on the wound, a few blessed moments pass in silence, or rather, the Investigator keeps his mouth shut, leaving nothing but the sound of water and the sounds of wet cloth against skin. He finds himself thinking back. Twenty-three years of age, twenty-three hours without sleep, twenty-three minutes until his friends pass away, twenty-three seconds until his life changes forever.

Of course, he doesn't know that — the Investigator tells him, two years and three months from this very day exactly. Aurelius marks the anniversaries of things with the fervour of a man possessed. In place of the scars, he thinks. It's a way for him to validate those fragile links to his humanity that he, like a few, blessedly _present_, people so desperately try to cultivate.

The Investigator smiles a mad, wide grin and moves toward him slightly, scanning his face with an almost cruel sense of observation. But under that there's something that doesn't quite match the intense ardour — it's the look of a, genuinely, pleased child and it doesn't match. Not in the slightest.

"Wanna know something good?"

"No, I don't." He grunts in the way of reply, looking away slowly and instead, stares determinedly at a pillar towards his left. Of course, the Investigator doesn't take the sodding hint. He never does.

He just chuckles.

"I've just lost my neighbour."

The words that come out of the boy's mouth are cold, empty — but while this is in no way strange, considering the level of disinterested detachment — there is something _else_ in those words. Something very, very wrong. So he turns his head again to find that they are practically nose to nose. The most he can do is stare in this position, but some part of him manages to licks his bottom lip unconsciously. "Well, that was rather careless of you." He eventually spits out, guardedly. He's not sure where this is going. Nor does he want to know.

"Well, that was rather careless of you." He eventually spits out, guardedly. He's not sure where this is going. Nor does he want to know.

At this, the Investigator suddenly bursts out laughing, very nearly kicking the bowl off the pew and sending the bloodied cloth from out of his hands with a sharp smack. It goes flying, only to rest in a sad rejected pile.

"No." He moves back then, suddenly expressionless. Thinking. Calculating. He narrows his eyes into slits and his voice lowers into something bank and heavy. And quiet, hushed. "I killed him."

Silence.

"Stabbed him between the neck and the shoulder, before slitting his throat with his own butter knife. I dumped his corpse in the moat by the side of the castle." He smiles, as if it's some sort of notifiable achievement. "He had a rather unconventional relationship with his step-daughter, if it's any consolation."

With this — all of this, he realises that this meeting was so much more treacherous than originally perceived. The Investigator knew this all along, he often does. For when it comes to the varying degrees of cold calculation — he will always know. The world is his toybox, his little experiment and like the wretched, calculating bastard he is, he knows exactly how much it takes to topple, how long before he steps over the line... but, like a boy with a spyglass he'll push it all to a new limit, to a new chapter of observation.

And, it all starts with messing with a man who doesn't know he's being messed around with.

"So, what're gonna do now, Pretty Boy?"

Martin Septim never stood a chance.


	2. Break - Part One : Bloodline

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

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** |PART ONE** |  
BLOODLINE

"His business is murder - but now, it's personal."

[]

When a well connected Skooma dealer is found dead in his cell the morning he is to be executed, difficult questions begin to arise. The man has been murdered, a slit throat being the cause of death and what little evidence remains has unearthed a long-hidden horror, dragging a particular Imperial Watchman back to a past he swore he had buried for good, leading him into a dark place where all evil forces dwell.

Because the secrets that doomed his mother two years earlier remain alive and lethal - and disturbing them could cost him much more then he ever previously considered.

Aurelius Avis is seventeen, pretty fixated on the world around him, a social degenerate and a genius.

He's also one of the most brilliant Imperial Watch Investigators in recent history.

[Part One of Three]


	3. P I - C I : The Beginning of the End

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

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|** PART ONE** |  
**CHAPTER I**

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

It's interesting to note that people have a tendency to forget that murderers, killers, assassins — the takers of lives, are _people_. They were born people and generally, they will die people. Aside from a the differences with race and genetic elements, they are all the same. There is little to differentiate them by. Murderers, rapists, all these lowlife specks of waste, they are people — and people, are animals. They can wear all the clothes they want, claim to hold the ability to reason, but it matters little. It's a simple fact; People are animals.

Living, breathing, horrible pointless animals.

The thing about these so-called degenerates, the evildoers that create the thrum of any city night, is that once you get a reference — once you've taken them apart and seen how they work, crawl underneath their skin. They are all the same. Very much like children, they are angry and fragile. He should know, for after five separate observations, he knows how fragile a youth can be. Indeed, he understands. Yet despite having come to have learnt this fact himself, through his own means, it hardly affects anything. He's not some sightless religious zealot, preaching undying forgiveness. He spends his time understanding the criminal elements that plague Cyrodiil because he believes that most, if not all, kill for a reason. Survival is a big theme, fear, anger, envy, lust — if it's one of the big seven, it's an excuse.

Revenge — he's seen that too, but he doesn't believe in revenge.

Revenge is a form of pride.

He doesn't kill for pride. Why should he? What would be the point in that?

He's not some story-book vigilante, he's not one of the good guys. His job description may suggest it, but he's not here to go around cleaning up cities or saving kidnapped children — he's a murderer himself, in fact, he's probably killed enough people to put him on the same level as those he frequently locks behind bars. A death sentence, defiantly. Despite the similar... method of operations, he does not feel sorry for them either — perhaps some part of him pities them, if he should ever come to understand how such an emotional response _worked_. He knows enough about it however to know that appreciating someone's motivations and condemning them are not the same.

Indeed, he only cares about why they do it it makes his job much easier. Skip a step, because he knows the game. He's been playing it long enough.

Out of everyone, he's hardly one of preach mortality — and he won't, for that matter. It's a waste of air and he doesn't wish to go around participating in anything borderlining on the unnecessary. He has killed dozens in the name of understanding, of learning, of developing. The fact is it doesn't matter what uniform he happens to wear; if he's working under the banner of the Imperial Watch or the Kvatch City Guard, he's not better than those waiting to be hanged for the murder of children. Possibly, he's even worse. Truthfully he doesn't enjoy being on the same level of that _scum_, but he's already soaked so deep in sin that he's practically saturated. He can't hide the way his palms are permanently dyed red with the blood of victim after victim, experiment after experiment.

Scum or no however, he knows — at a significant push... _understands_.

When the so called, 'Law Abiding Citizen' looks at those convicted of murder, they do not look them in the eyes and see themselves on a weaker day. They shun them, they call them monsters and then continue to go on with their daily lives, content that the victims when't _their_ family, or _their_ friends. They go around believing that the murderers are 'those' people and that they are 'these' people — that there is nothing they have in common. Most of the time they cannot comprehend them being someone else's lover, or someone else's child, someone else's friend.

Because they are monsters.

But, honestly. They haven't even seen the real monsters. Not yet.

And they never will; because why would an Investigator, a man who goes out of his way to put the criminals behind bars, be a criminal himself? How could that happen? What happened to the good guys, the holier than thou heroes?

The difference between him and them, is that they kill for a reason. They kill in response to something else and some-way, somehow they could justify it, no matter how sick it sounds. He, the Investigator, the Boy — the Monster. He doesn't. He kills for the same reason he would toss a apple or go swimming — because it passes time, because it is pointless and purposeless and it brings him little joy in the slightest. There is no particular lust in him. The only inherit need he has is to investigate, to understand and he can do that without killing people. Indeed, he has done so in the past quite well. No. He doesn't kill for a reason, per say.

Aurelius Avis kills because if the people around him are too fetching blind, stupid and all around thick-skulled to look down from their beloved moral high ground, then he's not going to educate them. He's got much more important things to be doing, quite frankly, why should he even bother to correct them? They've done nothing for him before.

It's like murder. Often pointless, defiantly boring and rather unnecessary.

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**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

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One of the first things he had been told, by some middle aged woman with shaking fingers and coarse words, was that who you once were does not necessarily dictate who you will be in the future, that what you did in the past will not prove what is to come. People change as the situation changes. You never stay the same.

For Aurelius Avis, it never quite... _worked_... that way.

He watches it silently as it continues the scuttle around on the floorboards beside his Momma's chair, he's been doing so for the better part of the morning. Through under the sparsely placed, barren furniture, across the cracks, it weaves in and out with it's own private agenda — it pays no attention to him, but the baby watches intensely. He born for this; observing and even at this age, sat on the floor, a chubby little Goliath in fourth-hand baby clothes with sticky fingers, he does so well. He watches the spider, large amber eyes unblinking. His Momma does not stir in the slightest, she's been entertaining the Kvatch men all night and now she is exhausted. So, with his Momma asleep and therefore not paying any attention to him, little Aurelius decided to pay his own attention to the spider instead. It's only fair, after all.

For what feels like a long time, he observes this little unsuspecting creature as it makes away across the floor for the fifth time in a row. Aurelius doesn't know what it's doing and once it gets close enough, he eventually becomes displeased with it, blinking and without warning, slams a pudgy little fist down to slam it flat.

It's over, that's that and now he finds himself with nothing to do.

Interesting, how such small murders foreshadow a life of dripping bloodshed.

The sound of his tiny hand impacting against the floorboards startles his Momma awake, but not for any specific parental reason, she seems to assume that her son's outburst had been a knock at the door, like when the guardsmen come in demanding tax or old women in flowing robes come in demanding that she feeds and washes her son to the acceptable degree. She groans when she realises that it's none of these things, still not looking at her son as she snorts, then quivers and wipes the drool from her bottom lip with a flick of her finger.

When he turns his head to look at her, she notices.

"Oh." Looking down at her tiny offspring - because he is hers, and only hers. That's the way it is. That's the way it will be for fifteen years. "Oh, my bab-ey, bab-ey." She slides off the table slowly and begins to press down the front of her dress slowly, before tucking a blonde curl around her ear. He did not inherit her hair colour. She sighs when she looks out past the window. "It'll always be just you, Bab-ey." and with that, she smiles with shaking lips and pats him sloppily on the head, which he dislikes.

In the future, a lot of people will often say that Aurelius really ought to have been more thankful for all that his Momma had done for him. How that, even though she was clearly sick of mind and health, she continued to raise a child — a bastard, no less — by hand. Of course, Aurelius being Aurelius, he would find amusement in such a statement, when he gets old enough to determine just how amusement is supposed to work in the conversational fashion. Having known her to have a very heavy hand, of which often came into contact with his backside, yes, you could very well say that Aurelius was indeed raised by hand.

His Momma of course never hit him any more than most parents would have, of course, but she never really did any normal things either. She didn't bother to lock the cupboards or raise her voice or shop for sweet things or knit or do anything similar to what the other boy's and girl's Mommas do.

She was just... _there_, sometimes alone and sometimes with strangers, but there nonetheless. Her son did little aside from sitting and staring at things all day, never often cried, never babbled or smiled. For a long period of time, she thought him dumb, but oh, Aurelius soon began to know better.

When he learns to walk, by watching and copying his mother and her guests, alone, all by himself, he finally manages to actually catch one of the spiders that eluded him in his crawling hunts. It's much more intriguing them mere squashing, and he cups it carefully in a palm-cage, looking up to see if his Momma was there. She's ordering things, papers, on the kitchen table, so he goes back to the spider and considers its frantic flailing of tiny limbs with mild interest. He mutters something and she looks up towards him, crouched down and peering into his hands.

"Whatchoo' got there, bab-ey?" his Momma asks, looking towards the items on the table again and wincing when her finger catches on one of them, swearing.

"Spider." He mutters, ignoring her sudden cry out and shifting one hand to start tugging at one of it's legs until it comes splintering off in a tear of tiny hairy muscles. The spider starts to spasm maniacally, like it's screaming with it's body, as spiders don't seem to have mouths or teeth or even tongues. At least, he doesn't think they do.

"That's lovely," she says without meaning it, looking at her hand making a face. "What're gonna' do with it?"

"Kill it."

She's not looking at him, so she doesn't hear him say it.

With a premature look of concentration, he plucks off another leg and tells the spider, quite bluntly, that it's unfair for her to have eight legs while every other insect must make do with six. The squirming creature seems to argue, so he then tells her that she may have killed lots of flies, but so has he, and he can kill spiders like her just as easily.

She doesn't seem to care, after that, so he frowns, and squashes her.

He's getting pretty bored with squashing.

Getting up to stand his Momma leaves the house on impulse to get something for her hand, leaving him alone. Like usual.

A few weeks later, the items on the table are gone and they have new clothes and better food and his Momma sits at the table again. "I am starting to do some wondering, Bab-ey." She laments at some point while he's toddling around the one bedroomed house on a concentrated hunting mission. "If you don't start talking all proper soon, the only thing yo' poor Momma is gonna get is gonna be the men, the men and only the men." After not even a glance from her son, she turns around to toss the foul smelling alcohol bottles out the front door and out into the soggy grass, sniffing as she does so. A guard shouts, but otherwise doesn't make an effort to do anything.

Not many people visit this part of town, really. So nobody is that bothered what you see. Kvatch is a city of many faces, he knows more than anyone.

The bottles are soon replaced by days end at any rate.

It's not that she was a bad Momma, because she wasn't — she just wasn't a very good one either. Nor did she stick around long enough to show him what he needed to know to be a good Momma. For those short few years, he was not interested in he, he had what he needed in the form of rocks and old books. Most often, they walked the uneasy tango in between like and dislike, he being him, she being her. One time, she tells him that he's too much like his Dadda. Aurelius doesn't take much of a notice. She says all sorts when she's drunk.

He's not old enough to realise how significant such a statement was.

Despite claiming him to be the Bastard son of a Bastard of man, she never minded when it came to being his Momma, really. She was attentive when it came to the food on the table and the cold water in the bucket. She tucked him and scrubbed him and fed him dutifully and he would do his own thing when she wasn't, she defended him from the constant streams of visitors and praised him when he got along with them. He would chase down smaller creatures to learn from, observe people through the cracks in the doorway and the slip in between the curtains when they were busy, out of sight and out of mind.

"So, what have you there, Bab-ey?" She asks one day, her chin propped up in a sober palm.

"Books, Momma."

She had smiled at that, grinning insanely up at the low ceiling. "I always' had wanted to be a scholar."

She had wanted to be a dancer, and a poet and a sailor too. But no, she was his Momma and most nights, a thirty minute lover. "So, where did you get them from?"

He don't tell her, but merely suggests that becoming a scholar might be a good idea — uggests that's what he wants to be when he's grown up and it's true, in some respect. He thirsts to know, why things are as they seem and why they aren't, why people do some things and others don't. Why he breathes, why he speaks, why he pumps out blood, why the people at the temple can make his cuts heal without bandages and stitches. He wants to know. So he takes books from odd places, it's not stealing, not in his mind, because he never understands nor cares why they aren't his to begin with.

Slim books with fake pictures and uninteresting storylines, books as big as his head with information of all stripes, of all calibres. Diagrams that show him, descriptions that tell him. He learns not out of social necessity but out of primal need. Sometimes he doesn't know what the words mean, or even what they say full stop. When he came across these big, confusing words, for the first time in his life, Aurelius felt overwhelmed. He asked his Momma, but she didn't know either and he started to feel almost frantic. Like the way he sometimes felt when he wanted to talk to one of the guards or the healers or someone but he was unsure of what to actually say.

He does pluck up the courage however, eventually.

"I don't know if I can read these words..." he began. He still wasn't sure how he could be expected to know terms that he hadn't even read before, or ever even heard someone use.

The Sister of Akatosh he had asked turned, before taking the book in his outstretched hand without so much as pause. She looks at the title inked on the spine and her eyebrows shoot up. "Well..." she said uneasily, "what is it that scholar's do when they don't know something?"

Of course, she was right.

Cutting the words down, he asked for the definitions and after a series of half clipped explanations from his mother, mashed them together in his head. It wasn't perfect, but it gave him some indication of what they meant. He sat on his stool in the back corner of his house, swinging his legs, as he pushed through the complicated sentences, trying to use the terms he did know to explain the ones he didn't. The further he gets, the more books he picks up, the more the world slowly begins to unveil. When his Momma is busy and the weather is good, he wanders out back and picks certain plants from the garden behind the Mages' Guild place. Learns what does what and what doesn't, what smells and what doesn't.

What kills, and what doesn't.

Most importantly however, Aurelius learns to add up the little things, the small, usually uninteresting facts and build them up to discover hidden truths. People like to find the means to an end, solving ordinary puzzles like what to buy and what to wear, while Aurelius becomes obsessed with the means, rather than actually getting to the end. The way the guards glance at him as he passes, the way Jules Severus smirks at him, they all mean things. It doesn't take him long to realise that the guards glance at him because they are seeing his Momma and Jules smirks because he has the general intelligence of a retarded pot plant. Soon, he learns what means shame and what means anger, what means surprise and what means shock. It becomes his one advantage.

He watches the world impassively as it goes by, the taller he gets, the more he sees and the more he understands. People come, people go and Aurelius Avis remains as he was beforehand. Mildly displeased and most certainly unfazed.

"Hey, hey whoreboy!"

Aurelius doesn't even bother to look up. He's busy watching as the subdued cat below him breathes, slow and steady, cradled in the long grass behind the chapel like an infant. He's not going to kill it, of course. He's learning how often hearts beat, how often something is to breathe without suffocating. To kill it would be downright pointless.

The boys surrounding however... oh _they_ are a different matter entirely.

He frowns, grime slicked hands clasping his bent knees as he observes. The boys are nothing but a small annoyance to him, the sons of common day labourers. Very boring. But an annoyance is an annoyance at the end of the day.

"My Momma says your Momma goes around disgracing the Nine by bedding every man in town." Jules spits his ugly, demented little face scrunching up when Aurelius does not bother to react. The would-be tormentor sends his foot into Aurelius' upper right ribs and he reluctantly snaps his gaze to that of the older boy, rolling his eyes lazily as he does so. The other two boys are nervous however, because Aurelius is rumoured to torture animals and beat the homeless with rocks. His eyes are scary too, it looks like they are burning. With hate, with madness.

With genius.

In order to reassure his backup, Jules smirks.

"Is that true, huh, whoreboy? Look, he's so scared he aint even gonna speak to us."

Aurelius stands upright, turning and stares down the slightly older boy. He stares at his neck, before looking down at the cat. Surely, a human needs to breathe as often as a cat does? Cocking his head to the side, he turns to stare unblinking at Jules.

"Hey, welp. My Dadda's gone to join the Legion to fight the fetchin' mer. Where's your Dadda, huh?"

Jules leans in. It's a mistake.

"Don't you have a Dadda, Aur— "

_CRACK._

Jules did not see the rock in Aurelius' hand, never mind predict that the other boy would actually hit him. With the force of his hit, he feels the ivory bone beneath shatter and just as he brings to pull the makeshift weapon away, the other boys sprint of rapidly, their legs carrying them away at speeds he does not observe nor care for. Jules is not dead, Aurelius has since learn't where and where not to hit with that amount of force. He's hit him hard enough to make the ugly little gremlin fall over. Nothing else.

Aurelius needs him alive, after all, he could hit a lot harder if he had wanted to.

Moving around to slam his hands down against Jules' throat, Aurelius falls down onto his knees and pushes all of his weight against the other boy's windpipe. He watches eagerly during what must be the asphyxiation, the suffocation. He wonders if this is typical of any human, of any mer - or perhaps it's just Jules. Perhaps it is everyone and everything, perhaps not. There is only one way to find out, and he realises this with a dull shake of his head. He has a lot of work to do.

A _lot_ of work.

Skip a good few years into the future, and rough, calloused hands will often come and slam down on many a person's throat, but now, these hands are slim and young. Aurelius is twelve years of age and each years marks a milestone of wonder, of understanding. Young they may be, but they still come with the very same intent backed with sheer, merciless determination. Jules, of course, does not know intent, he knows only fear and other, stupid little emotions. His eyes dart about in fanatic desperation, searching for any escape. Aurelius sees none, he made sure of _that_ before he even attempted to suffocate the imbecile. The bigger boy becomes submissive to mindless panic, the convulses take dominance. His breaths lessen and fade, and Aurelius can only tilt his head when Jules' eye stop darting about. He's no longer struggling.

Dissatisfaction takes hold soon afterwards and Aurelius rises, releasing his viced grip and scowling hard. He needs to ponder on this, but he does glance back at the fallen boy, who is spluttering and choking like a demented fish.

"No." He says to the boy's earlier question, his tone is bored, monotone and turns towards the cat, scooping it up. He'll continue on elsewhere.

When he returns home, he doesn't ask his Momma. He doesn't want to know where is Dadda is, or even _who_ his Dadda is. He's not particularly interested.

Not yet.

A week after he turns fifteen however, he walks in after a fight in the local tavern to find his Momma dead. Her death, honestly, was very much like her life; uneventful, undignified and most certainly overlooked. It's a gruesome murder, yes, but it's also expected. Of course it's expected, she lets strange men into her home. Aurelius pauses in the doorway, mouth slightly agape and amber eyes wide. Then he frowns, glancing at the old, battered pocketwatch he took from the butcher's son last month. It's not even past noon. Glancing over his shoulder, he shuts the door behind him walking towards the corpse with a air of mild interest.

Across her throat is an angular, linear cut and that is clearly the cause of death. Aurelius examines it for some time. Her head is wrenched backwards over her chair, blood seeping into the pours floorboards, streaming down her neck and pooling on her collarbones. Her face is expressionless, there is no shock, no surprise. Walking around her slowly, he realises that the murderer must have come in through the window, crept up on her, grabbed her hair and proceeded to kill. The murderer is also left handed, well practised — and he was wearing gloves. It's because he is indifferent in all things that he merely notes this information with a small noise and an abruptly turns on a heel. So he goes and tells the guards. Someone murdered his Momma.

Someone murdered his Momma. A regular old horror, one experience on top of another. How dull.

The investigation lasts three days, and it's during this time that Aurelius Avis decides what he is to do next. Through grieving once family friends and through cold sympathy and pointless words, he spends the better of the next month and a half looking into who could be his Dadda. It's not much, speculations and uninteresting rumours. Someone says he's the son of some horrible Deadric Prince, so he punches them so hard in the solar plexus that they vomit in retaliation. It comes slowly, because nobody really spent much time getting to know him nor his Momma. They are strangers wearing unfamiliar faces. After a while however, he finds out what he wants to know. Because Aurelius knows that he will get what he wants in the end. He finds out a where the Man who might be his Dadda rode from.

The house wasn't theirs, some form of lower-grade councilman tells him. So he sells the stuff in it, pausing when he gets to the pathetic little cake she had bought him from the baker's for his birthday. It's covered in sweet things. He hates sweet things. So he doesn't bother with it, merely drops it in front of one of the homeless people down the street. His last days in Kvatch are spent taking a series of worn travelling clothes from numerous stalls, as well as a pair of solid boots and a crappy iron shortsword. One of the owners catches him, so Aurelius just drops the shortsword and eyes the male, before competently destroying the man with three solid blows in quick succession. He's seen how the Fighter's Guild lot fight before. And the drunken folk in the streets and in bars. It's not that hard.

"I won't be back." He says, shrugging, before picking up the sword again and walking on. The unconscious man's dog follows him, almost mournfully, and Aurelius lets it. It bites people when he tells it too, which is easier then stabbing someone, so he decided to tolerate it for the time being. He leaves Kvatch the following afternoon, his hair slicked back, to go searching for his Dadda.

Only because it seems like the logical thing to do. If he were normal.

If.

But when he gets there, everything is much more different then to what he is used to. Winter has become spring, and the greatest city in Cyrodiil, centre of the Empire, birthplace of the Legion; the Imperial City is rich, fast, dirty and exciting. Everywhere he looks, something is being built or torn down to be re-built, bigger and better. Houses, the rooftop of the Arena, manors, massive archways and people, palm readers huddled near street corners, shops-keepers selling items, guardsmen thundering up and down through crowds of civilians on duty. Everyone has something to do, somewhere to go a fortune to make of break.

Then someone tries to take the pocketwatch out of his jacket and Aurelius spins around, slamming the heel of his palm into the theif's throat, before dislocating the man's shoulder as he slams him into the wall. This was a rather common occurrence back in Kvatch and it's here, stood over the crippled theif that he realises what he's going to do next. The revelation is somewhat exciting and Aurelius pulls up the thief with a rare, genuine grin.

"Steal from me again, and I'll tear out your windpipe. Do you understand?"

It's because of this new found purpose that Aurelius lets him leave. He's going to be very busy indeed.

The next month and a half is rather interesting, to say the least. He is a ghost. A non-person breaking himself down the foundations then building it back up brick by blood-stained brick. He clears out nearly every small time-gang in the Waterfront district. Then proceeds to bust and decimate a few Skooma rings. Picked off a few small fry scum. Stolen an accumulative sum of around one hundred gold pieces of a bunch of better established thieves. It has a lot of the guard stumped. The better he got, the more he upped the game. Five weeks in and he goes after a few high-flyers, knocking out a councilman who likes to scam vulnerable people, before leaving him tied to a chair in the middle of the Talos Plaza district with all the necessary evidence stacked beside him. A few of them he had to kill. Their deaths were quick and relatively painless, but it's no excuse. Quite frankly it was easier.

Then it all goes southward, he's looking into who may be responsible for a series of homicides, skulking around the main victim's home when one of the doors is suddenly beaten in. Before he can even move, five Imperial Watchmen come thundering inside. Their leader is pretty easy to identify, because the man is dressed from head to toe in solid, Imperial armour, decorated with gold flourishes and is vastly different from the four other men. He carries himself different and Aurelius swears inwardly when he realises that said man is a captain.

Aurelius just purses his lips. Well. It was going to happen eventually, he supposes, and with that he casually raises his hands, sighing fitfully.

"Aurelius Avis." The leader full on grins, removing his helmet and propping it under one arm. "You," He points at him, shaking his head with either good humour or an ample amount of relief. "are very difficult to track down."

He stares at the captain, mouth agape in an expression of rare shock. Out of all the possible scenarios, this one was... well, nigh on comprehensible. He made _sure_ nobody was able to trace it all back to him.

But then he's also young and rash, and as it turns out, Captain Phillida of the Imperial Guard has been shadowing him ever since Aurelius first started.

He'll learn why... ten or so years from now.

"I have three warrants with your name on it." The captain walks forwards, firm and stands just short of the younger man. "Two of them are for immediate arrest, the other is essentially a kill order. Now, I'm willing to make those all go away... but I have a list of criteria." Leaning forwards, the Imperial Captain narrows his eyes, practically nose to nose with Aurelius. "The first, is that you tell me who is responsible for this..." He waves his hand across the expanse of the house for emphasis. "_Mess_, and the other, slightly more unusual requirement, is that we put you in a uniform — where you belong. No arguing, no struggling — the way I see it, you have nothing to lose anymore. People like me either want your talent, or would rather you be dead in fear of competition."

Eyeing one of the guardsmen as he plays with the hilt of his sword, Aurelius deflates. Well, he'd like to take an option that did not involve _death_, for once. He didn't exactly fight tooth and nail three weeks ago to just die now. He couldn't give the old geezer the satisfaction. Besides, he had to put his education to some good use — and the Legion... well, he'd be protected. He'd be able to do much more, and have easier access to resources.

He had nothing to think about. If he could get away with it, well, Aurelius will just take what he can get.

"Well, shit. Count me in boss."

It felt much like writing your own funeral obituary.


	4. P I - C II : Arvyn Dren

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

* * *

**Author's Note:**

So I promised you lot that I would update more, I planned it all out - it was ready, all was good and dandy.

Then I got floored by a kidney infection.

I don't know if this was fate kicking me metaphorically in the balls or what, but worry no more - I'm back, with chapters to make up for it. I don't expect any further problems, at any rate so...

**WARNING:  
**References to rape, assault and other horrible things. You can't say I haven't warned you.

...

It's good to be back.

* * *

|** PART ONE** |  
**CHAPTER II**

ARVYN DREN

She is sick today.

Propped up against the bar, he watches her from across the room, gaze not-so-subtly locked on her hardly clad from. She, despite his staring however, does not notice. Nobody seems to, oddly enough - excluding the certain individuals watching _him_. There are three of them, sat in one corner of the room. He can feel their gazes drilling into his back as he takes another swig of the downright sheep's piss this tavern dares call alcohol. Mildly, it annoys him - not the alochol, though that is rather aggravating - but the fact that nobody bothers to notice. It's obvious, incredibly so.

That, and being in a room filled with loud, shouting older men is starting to give him a headache... but it's not about him. Not really. It's about her... _and_ the man who commonly associates with her.

Perhaps to anyone of average intelligence, it would not be obvious. The influenza - that bitch of a mutation that creeps under her skin like a repugnant parasite; it masks her drugged up haze, covering it. The other men here, now they would bring their eyes to look upon the blush across her nose and cheeks and - assuming they could even look at her face properly... these men are disgusting, that, he had decided early on - they would consider it as some form of idle embarrassment, or charm. Not the result of illness. Nor the work of a practising alchemist. He knows this partly because he's responsible, partly because he has trained himself to look for these signs and partly because he's a genius, so it's crystal fucking clear to him. The forms of animalistic attraction that these other men show is not worthy of comparison. If anything, he finds these subtle little signs more alluring then the simple anatomy of an Imperial female.

Suppressing a shudder as he takes another swig from the glass propped before him, the seventeen year old Junior Investigator, Aurelius Avis, rolls his eyes in distaste. He hates alcohol - he really does, but he needs to appear older, more developed. He may sit here in a Watchman's boots with an Imperial Legionnaire's belt, but he's still a boy.

Boys tend to stand out.

Aurelius observes her from across the bar. She has lost sight of her... follower, in the crowd. The result is intriguing to say the least. Looking over her shoulder, her fragile body twisting as frantic eyes scan the waves of people, her golden matted hair falls over her shoulders in a series of waves. She makes to wander towards one part of the tavern, between two tables and he becomes downright furious when he manages to lose sight of her, seemingly materialising into the collection of patrons. It does nothing for his headache - he despises loud noises too. If he knew his input would result in _this_ much bother he would have told Phillida to stuff it then and there.

That makes him laugh. It's a soft, reticent noise, but it's there nonetheless.

_How long will he keep telling himself that?_

Slamming his glass against the bartop, he glares impassively at the Argonian barmaid with a degree of muted aggression he as since become well known for. It's a lot harder in his semi-intoxicated state, but Aurelius must pull it off, because she mutters something about the behaviour of her patrons as she refiles his glass for what is now the fourth time this evening. In the far left corner of his peripheral vision, one of the three Watchmen shifts, the dull thunk of boots following shortly after. He's not supposed to get drunk, either on a normal day or otherwise, but considering it was Aurelius who got them this far in the first place, he feels inclined to do as he pleases.

Eventually, through frenzied searching, he does catch sight of her again. The Junior Investigator ignores his drink for the time being, moving backwards, very much determined not to lose her again. She's flinching and wincing now and Aurelius has observed that after forty seven minutes of this she should be nearing apparent unconsciousness. But, considering the erroneous factor of the other fellow, the illness and the semi-potent drug in her bloodstream, it could considerably less. Or more, perhaps. He's never had chance to test it before and results will defiantly vary depending on the health of the person, height and weight being of general consideration too. At any rate...

Only time will tell.

He would drastically prefer it if it happens sooner rather then later. The sooner she gets tired, the sooner the other fellow will pounce and Aurelius will observe, before moving in. Perhaps. It depends on who gets there first and with that thought, Aurelius turns to glare at the approaching Watchman, eyebrows slightly raised. The Watchman hesitates, looking back at his colleges. They are not used to not having anyone in charge. None of others really know what they are to do. Figures.

_Honestly_. Fools.

Ripping his gaze away from the Watchman and over towards the female, Aurelius retakes his glass as she lulls to an inevitable halt, a rock amongst the mass of large, shouting working men. Grumbling into his drink, idly considers the chances of an incorrect dosage - perhaps another factor, he hopes the little addition to her drink wouldn't finish her off too soon- not that he particularly cares. Because he _doesn't_. It's the other fellow he's after. It's the other fellow. This he reminds himself as he takes a long drink, fingers drumming against the bartop as he waits. Another glance shows that she's panicking. It's not very noticeable and even Aurelius has to double check, but there is no disguising the fear. He can see it in her eyes.

A few seconds afterwards and her ribcage and sternum heave up suddenly, then down again, beads of sweat glistening on the dimple dip of skin between her collarbones and he can plainly see now, somewhat through the creeping levels of rising alochol in his system, that she is defiantly panicking. She doesn't know what's going on, other then that something, intentional or otherwise, it is taking affect. A mild form of poison, to be precise. Enough to accelerate the symptoms of her illness, with the addition of a strong hypnotic to make it obvious, so much so, that it only takes a mere glance to realise that something is amiss - or in their case, that she's exhausted. It's a very powerful sedative, an anticonvulsant, something of a anxiolytic, an amnestic too, and a skeletal muscle relaxant drug. The Imperial City Watch has access to a wide range of interesting ingredients - for Aurelius, this is as much of an experiment as it is a sting operation.

There comes a casual, attention seeking cough and Aurelius feels the coolness of plate armour against his side. It seems that they realise that too, so he glares at the other beside him and they keep this exchange in hostile looks up until Aurelius looks back to the girl. The guardsman really doesn't have to say anything; Aurelius knows. He's had it drilled into his head.

Quite literally, as well as metaphorically. Phillida is quite the disciplinarian.

As the blood pounds through her veins, forcing, pushing out to flush her cheeks again with colour in ample violation, Aurelius narrows his eyes, shifting slightly and leaning both his elbows up against the bar. Subconsciously, he moves one hand up, pressing the palm against the base of his jugular. The grooved pad of his right thumb brushes against the smooth skin just above his left collarbone and he can faintly feel the tiny raised nick. Scar tissue. A remnant of a mishap with a knife back last year. Humming slightly under his breath, Aurelius takes his hand away and wraps it around the bottom of his glass instead. Three gulps in quick succession. It doesn't burn.

"Avis..." comes the half frustrated and, interestingly, half worried whisper from his side. The Watchman's right hand rests against his shoulder and this makes the Junior Investigator growl before pushing it away violently.

Aurelius hates being touched. He just can't stand it. He doesn't like people near him or around him or in general sight range, if he can possibly help it. People feel to much and are quick to just overwhelm him by just... well, _existing_, he supposes. When people get near he can feel their body heat and he can't help but notice all the flooding and flowing and twitching that makes them alive, and then he feels sick, because it's another heap of things to take in on top of a load of other things he has to watch out for - but when they touch him, it gets far worse. Pounding-migraine-rum-and-Colovian-brandy worse.

"Just watch." He commands, looking back to the girl and shifting over towards the very end of the barstool. As far away from the Watchman as he can get without actually going anywhere.

A few minutes pass and with a lop sided grin promising definite trouble, the _other fellow_ makes his way towards her. The bastard has probably noticed that she's getting wobbly, odd in behaviour, and if Aurelius has done this correctly - which he assumes he has, of course - he will assume she is drunk, or tired, or both. He says something to her, wrapping his arms around the exposed slip of skin around her waist and she says something back. It doesn't take long at any rate. No sooner then they've finished their conversation, she's moving up the stairs with him. Her look says it all; she's exhausted, she's scared. She doesn't want this. She's begging for someone, anyone to call her away and save her.

Luckily for her, there is a grand total of four members of the Imperial City Watch in shouting distance with an arrest warrant for her unconventional suitor.

"We need to move." Aurelius grunts, wincing. His words are starting to slur, now that the alochol has started making him dizzy and he braces both hands heavily against the bar, fingernails digging into the wood as he exhales.

Then someone, or at least Aurelius assumes that it's a someone, slams into his lower back. With a muted gasp and a firm look of full blown anger, because it's not _right_ \- it's not what's supposed to fetching happen - the Junior Investigator kicks his leg out, creating some space between him and the person before spinning violently. He's just about to open his mouth to yell at them, but he's suddenly interrupted when she - and she is a she, the realisation hits pretty damn quickly - propels herself off the barstool in a series of sloppy drunken movements and sodding _lands_ on him.

"C'mon handsome." Her tone is far too sharp, a series of uncomfortable notes that ring in his ear canal and Aurelius backs into the bar again, jerking his head away and setting his jaw. "You look like you need some downtime."

The Watchman sat beside him peels himself slowly from his own barstool and makes to move towards them, but he's grinning - clearly enjoying the turn of events. "I couldn't..." she manages to slide hand around his waist, despite his rather obvious protesting. "Don't... get off." her inability to do so sends Aurelius into something vaguely resembling rage and he scowls, looking downwards he takes in the woman pressing him up against the bar, lip curling with every little observation. She's trashed, completely and utterly trashed and she smells of something sickly, her accent is butchered, she's young - older then him, but young - and seems to generally enjoy this.

Aurelius doesn't though. Not in the slightest.

At any rate, she's nothing but a giggling little common labour's girl and, if she's not careful, a giggling labour's girl who's about to get raped and dumped in an alleyway. He's not in the mood.

So, with a hefty thump to the upper abdomen, he makes her stagger backwards. People look towards him, most of them amused, a few of them disgusted and Aurelius scowls as he passes. She says something then, makes to move again.

"Tell me, Eustis... do you always give criminals the same massive fuck off chance of escape?" Aurelius barks towards the Watchman closest and waves a hand at him when the man splutters something in reply. He doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't care... but he'd he wouldn't be surprised if the answer was indeed, 'yes'. Intolerably stupid, these lot. "We need to go, _now_."

With this at least, the guards suddenly move into action, probably realising just why they were here in the sodding first place. Aurelius rolls his sleeves up, gaze flicking over towards the opposite side of the room. It's time. The Woman blanches when she realises the armoured Imperial Watchman around her and when she looks at him, her gaze locks on the insignia stamped into his belt. She doesn't do anything after that, letting him pass. Aurelius gives her a cool look as he passes before taking a tiny, gasping intake of breath as he moves over towards the staircase into the upper rooms, but intoxication is taking hold and in his head it echoes and slams against his skull, like rage, like blood-lust.

It's confusing, because he's not angry, well, not completely. He's been angrier - he's frustrated if anything. It all seems amplified.

Drinking, it seems, was a bad idea.

When he gets to them, Aurelius realises that the stairs are going to be the most difficult. When he climbs onto the first step, his knees feel heavier then before and his brow lowers as he brings them up again. His feet land awkwardly every time, uneven footfall thumping loudly. It makes his head hurt.

He gets close to the top when one of the Watchmen wrenched him up, large hands grabbing under his arms and shaking him roughly. "Wake up." the older man grumbles, eyes flashing towards the guard who was following behind, a mixture of worry and annoyance. The man has every right to be, Phillida told them to keep an eye on him after all. "They're in one of the rooms down there - how do we know which one they went in without breaking cover?"

Rolling his head forwards, Aurelius snarls and shoves the guard away with still developing strength. The corridor before him is swaying slightly and he runs a hand over his hair. The guard makes to say something again, but a wave of the hand shuts him up instantly and the Investigator moves along it slowly, taking in each doorway. He's slow, because he'll surely end up on his arse if he goes any faster and he staggers to a halt when he picks up on a series of noises. Raising his head slowly, Aurelius frowns and then turns towards the guards, who just stare back at him uncertainly. They are unsure of what to do, a lot of them aren't much older then Aurelius and last time they rushed it, it did not go well in the slightest.

Raising a hand hesitatingly, the Investigator moves forwards towards the door first. Though when he gets within arms reach of the handle, he pauses, his head cocking towards the left suddenly as he things something over. He hadn't intended for it, because his brain slams to an unnerving halt and he moves his hand down to rest against his sword.

It doesn't take him long to add it all up and as soon as he does, Aurelius snarls, slamming his booted foot into the door with as much force as he can actually muster. One of the hinges blows loudly, ripping free from the wooden doorframe and sending one of the nails across the room. It flies into the window, into the glass, a spider-web crack forming around it. The Dark Elf in the room suddenly shouts in surprise and when he steps inside, Aurelius perceivers the scene before him with a dulled calculation. The snarl curls into a sneer and he eyes the criminal before him coolly.

"Arvyn Dren..." Aurelius calls, but his voice feels wrong, weird, like he's taking from far away instead. Blinking, he slams the heel of his palm into his forehead in irritation, glaring at the man anew. Not just Dren, really. "You make me fucking _sick_."

It's the truth, in some respect - but the term feels odd on his tongue. It suggests that he's in some way shocked, but Aurelius isn't, per say. He's not exactly swayed by the sight before him, even if what little culture he's picked up on in the past year and a half suggests that it's disgusting, despicable, horrible. To him, all of this is just a bunch of facts rolled into one scene. He's got the grounds to arrest the Dumner now and this is something that Dren seems to realise too, because he jumps away from the girl, panic stricken. It leaves the girl left pushed over the desk, bent forwards, the trails of tears running down her face. She stares at Aurelius like he's not really there.

That does it for him.

If she was any other girl, perhaps he would have kept his cool - remained indifferent. Or perhaps it's because his wasted. Either way, during the split seconds that they lock gazes, he realises that her beauty was pretty heartbreaking to see up close. She was everything he wasn't and she reminded him too much of his Momma. His Momma had the same golden hair.

All things considered...

Dren's nose makes a satisfying sonorous crunch as Aurelius slams it hard into the wood of the desk and then, for emphasis, the Investigator grabs a handful of the Dumner's hair and grins his hand into the back of his skull for good measure. He's not allowed to kill Dren, of course, but Aurelius knows he can get away with a little mark here and there. The asshole isn't about to get any compensation for it, nor is he pity. Mass-raping Skooma smugglers hardly do. Crying out in pain, and outrage, Dren manages to twist himself around, clawing at Aurelius' face as he pulls him up. The alcohol has done a serious number on his reaction times, so the Investigator just grimaces, rearing backwards and slamming into the wall in an attempt to get hold of the situation.

The sounds coming from the room must be something of a definite warning sign, because Aurelius can't do much soon afterwards. Hands grab hold of his upper shoulders and he's paused aside by the guards. They take over and he doesn't complain, pressing a tentative hand towards the scratch running across his forehead. His fingertips come away bloody and at the sight of it, Aurelius merely grunts in acknowledgement.

In fact, the whole thing leaves him somewhat... well, stunned.

The alochol really is taking it's toll.

"By the Nine..."

Eyes flashing towards the guard who spoke, Aurelius raises both his eyebrows, then looks towards at the rest of the room, at the evidence.

"You were right." The guard looks at Aurelius, disbelief colouring his features as he looks the scene over.

Aurelius just grumps.

"Course' m'right. I'm always fuckin' right"

The girl has moved away from the desk and she's leant up against the broken window. She's not the only girl either; there's another three huddled into one corner of the room, watching the events before them, eyes wide and silent. Another girl, the fifth, is pushed up against the bed frame, her head lolling against her chest and although he's drunk off his skull - Aurelius knows something is defiantly wrong. He goes wandering up slowly, grabbing her chin when he gets within arm's reach.

Nothing.

The blonde girl, his original target, screams when he sees him do it. He doesn't let go, even when she throws herself against him, protest in the form of flailing arms and weak thumps. "Let go of her!" she roars thickly through a river of snot, tears and - unexpectedly - blood, through a thick curtain of hair however she realises through her groggy stupor that Aurelius isn't Dren and she pauses.

Looking towards the girl on the bed, Aurelius frowns. "She needs a healer." he looks towards the guardsmen, who just nods.

"One'll be up with the Captain soon."

The blonde girl is still looking at him and Aurelius blinks, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, I know m'gorgeous."

Avis turns to look at the girl who has since moved away from the desk and is stood near the window, then at the guard who spoke. He's looking back at the rest of the room, at the evidence.

"Good." He replies slowly, but he's too drunk to do much else, so he makes a wide gesture with his free arm. The guard stares at him perplexed until he realises that the gesture was actually supposed to be indication to take over.

"Wow, Avis." He breathes as he passes and because he's fairly certain that Aurelius won't be able to stand for much longer, he grabs both his upper arms and pushes him into the beside table. "Just, stay there. Keep hold of that." Despite everything, he's clearly amused. Some traitorous us part of Aurelius' brain doesn't blame them. After all, to see the high functioning sado-masochist asshole off his head on alochol must be a sight in a half.

For a good hour and a half, he watches them as they go on with their business. They tend to the girls, to the girl he had drugged, to Dren. It's all rather organised, practiced and Aurelius finds himself with little to do as a direct result. It's this feeling of purposeless that gives him the idea of leaving and some stupid part of his brain decides that, actually, that's a good idea. So he mutters something to one of the guards on the way out, feeling inclined to struggle down the corridor, then to fall half way down half a set of stairs to wind up thundering out the back door.

An amasing coolness greets him as he steps outside onto the wet cobbles. The air smells of the docks, the lake, fresh rainfall and a small slither of light from a small nearby lantern reflects against the metal of his boots. Aside from the small glow, everything else is pretty much cast into darkness. There are little, if any, lanterns around here and as he walks, Aurelius coughs, then heaves, gag reflex spluttering something onto the collar of his shirt. He wipes his mouth, disgusted.

In his drunken state, the Waterfront district seemed much larger then it was before. He started to feel a little sick after a few moments, worry building up somewhere in the back of his mind. When he finds one of the East Empire Trading Company warehouses along the southern end of the district, he was pretty thrilled. Though his relief is pretty much quashed instantly when something cool and sharp presses against the back of his neck. He hadn't heard the footsteps, nor did he the shuffle of clothes. He does realise the danger however, so he spins to suddenly finds himself face to face with a scrap of a poor man - but not just any lower class delinquent - but the idiot who first tried to mug him for his pocketwatch a year and a half ago. Rags cover he majority of his torso and through crooked teeth, he demands everything on Aurelius' person.

Because he's too far gone, Aurelius doesn't immediately react. Idly, he looks behind him, then at the mugger, brow lowering in intoxicated bafflement. The mugger however is not impressed and he rips the blade away to smash his knuckles deep into the Investigator's lower gut. When he doubles over, everything pretty much comes back to him.

He's never getting this wasted, never again if he can help it. Or at least until he can get a better grip on things. It's just one thing after another, really. Gods.

"Hey! Step away and drop the weapon -"

The mugger turns, surprised and now that Aurelius is behind him, he takes the man in from a different angle. He's not much of a man - he's younger then Aurelius. He's taller, very much so, but he's also quite handsome too, if you took away the skin defects and evidence of poor breeding. He could have been someone.

Pity.

Aurelius inhales, before snapping the mugger's neck with his bare hands. The vertebrate snaps, shuddering with a gutter and a creak and the boy slumps against the cobbles with a dull thud. From above him, the Investigator watches dispassionately, giving the body a shove with the tip of his boot. He doesn't appreciate being mugged.

"Avis!"

He recognises the voice, so much so that he jerks around in order to face the direction it came from. Running one hand through his hair, Aurelius half grimaces when Adamus Phillida comes thundering towards him, all high and mighty in his shining captain's armour, clanking loudly with every armour clad footstep. He half expects the man to stop, but of course, Phillida doesn't and Aurelius suddenly finds himself being half flung half pushed across the road and into a wall. Again.

This really isn't a good day; he's getting tossed around way more then he should.

"-hat happend?!"

"Mhn, hada'nife." he mumbles, waving his hand at the dead lump of rags and skin disease on the cobbled floor. "Y'seen Dren'yt?"

Realising just how drunk Aurelius is gives Phillida a pause. He's seen a lot in his forty or so years in the Imperial Watch, but he has never seen a drunken Investigator, in the middle of a sting operation, no less. Looking down at the corpse, squinting through the darkness, the Captain then eyes Aurelius, distrusting. "Did you kill him?" he asks, slowly, because Aurelius seems to lose a lot of his intelligence when he's drunk, it seems.

"Didn't mean, jus'happend 'hat way." the younger man says, dumbly, slamming into Phillida's chestplate in order to steady himself. At least it's not a fetching wall. Wisely, the Captain says nothing about it. "Hada' knife, Sir."

"As you said."

"Nhnn, self..._fetching_defence."

"Sir?" comes a shout from further down the road and Phillida looks over his shoulder.

He shouts, waving a hand at the half collapsed Aurelius below him. "Found him."

"Shutupph, fuckss'sake!"

Much to his drunken surprise, Phillida laughs. "You heard the man, is Dren accounted for?"

"Yes Sir."

Suddenly frustrated, Aurelius half growls half snorts and when he moves back, he just manages to avoid chucking up the alochol and this morning's breakfast allover his superior's boots. This time, Phillida is less amused, but he doesn't say anything to suggest so. Just stands firm, staring angrily. It's not that he can just give an order to make the younger man cut it out after all.

At least he caught Dren... even if it did involve butchering every single protocol beforehand.

"Charming." his superior hisses, grabbing hold of the back of Aurelius' collar and wrenching him upwards. He's somewhat surprised when the boy doesn't start instantly thrashing and swearing, as what usually happens when someone grabs him, but he hides it soon afterwards, speaking casually. "Well, your the one who's going to be filling out the paperwork tomorrow, son."

Aurelius stares at him for a moment, eyes squinting in the half-light. "You're fuckin' mean." He eventually concludes, reproachful. He's more of a boy then a guardsmen at this point, and because, _technically_, Avis is still in what they consider training, Phillida can't do much more then just scold him for it. Well, hand Phillida an apron and call him a housewife - it's going to be nothing but boot polishing and early bedtimes for the so called genius now.

This, is going to cause a lot of headaches. For both of them, Phillida supposes.

"Adaaaaaaaaaaamus!" Avis wails suddenly and the momentary peace pops with a sad little squeak because his is voice raised in that trademark idiocy of all drunken people where they all spontaneously assume that everyone in the world has gone stone cold deaf. "Evidence!" he barks, violently pushing himself away in sudden urgency, Phillida just grabs his upper shoulder in order to keep him steady.

"I don't think so."

"The fuck not?!" with half bloodied hands clenched and his shoulders squared. He'd look pretty intimating, granted...

But considering how he's facing a competently different direction, and he's swaying constantly, Phillida just roll his eyes. He thinks he's a tough customer. How cute. Smacking him hard over the head, the Watch Captain grabs hold of a hand full of the strands and jerks the boy's head up so they relativity nose to nose, glaring all the way.

"You. Dearest, darling, most favourite not-quite-officer in the world ever, are shit faced. That's why."

Aurelius would look vaguely surprised, if he had any idea how, so he just sneers.

"You're-" His insult is completely interrupted as he turns around again to empty his stomach. Phillida feels one of his eyes twitch and a couple of the guards grin from their positions. This is going to be some impressive blackmail material.

Yeah, boot cleaning and early nights. Defiantly.

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**


	5. P I - C III : Early Execution

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

* * *

|** PART ONE** |  
**CHAPTER III**

EARLY EXECUTION

It was sunrise when Captain Adamus Phillida took the walk towards the western bank of Lake Rumare. As he looked across the still water, at the cluster of trees that marked the edge of the Great Forest, he couldn't help but think back to his days as a footman, out patrolling the Red Ring Road. It was all very nostalgic, but Phillida was no longer a footman, nor was he going to travel along that particular road. Not today. No, today he was venturing towards a suspicious death.

When he reached the small hamlet of Weye, he cut north across the scrappy bank and in the direction of the water's edge, his heavy armoured form sinking a few inches into the mud, towards the group of Imperial Watchmen who located themselves just beside an empty rowing boat and what was presumably the man of the hour; a crumpled form lay presented on the beach. Even at this time there wasn't a lot of light, so Phillida could only identify them as vague black shapes. The crime scene was no more than half a mile away from the hamlet itself, which stood just before the bridge towards the Imperial City. The only way to get to the body, he had been told when he was awoken, was to either cut across the muddy bank, an unkempt section of grass with weeds as tall as your waist, or to simply find a way to get across the water.

To Adamus, it seemed like a long walk, especially with the rain and wind whipping against his armoured form. He's getting to old for this, he realises with a small passive grunt.

Weye was home to only two dwellings, but the main one of interest stood to the right of the road, just after the bridge ended; a small, rectangular cottage a stone's throw away from the lake. The other building was an inn, usually favoured by travelling footmen on their breaks, or traders waiting for market day. The small population meant no onlookers, to which Phillida was quite unused to - most 'murders' of a suspicious nature tended to take place within the city walls.

In fact, the only people around was a group of five or so stern looking Watchmen, two of which who made some form of wall, standing a set distance apart with their arms folded. He nodded towards the one closest to him, who returned the gesture respectfully. "Might want to hurry along, sir." the Watchman states, tipping his head up meekly to examine the sky above him. "Prolly' going to start chucking it down soon, knowing our luck. Civello is ready and waiting to fill you in." looking along the bank, Phillida nods - he can hear the man from here.

"Anything happen since we found the body?" Phillida gives the area another look around, aside from the presence of the Imperial Watch, it's deserted. "Onlookers, suspicious folk?"

The Watchman gives him a humoured look. "Nothing aside from the occasional drizzle. Not many people're out walking this early, Sir."

Phillida nods, walking further along to stand beside his subordinate and intimidate successor, Giovanni Civello, who is as immaculate as ever and one of the other Watchmen who Phillida did not know the name of. They're all armoured, with raindrops still clinging to the plate. One of them continues to examine the area and another fellow was out examining the boat. Stepping forwards slightly, Phillida eyes the crumpled body of an emaciated old man wearing the typical fisherman's waders. The fellow was lying on his back, with his neck bent at an impossible angle, one arm bent in the opposite way to which it should have been, and a sharp knife of bone protruded through the fabric of his waders on his inner right thigh. Painful wounds indeed. His clothes and hair were wet with rain, soaked to the skin and Phillida wondered how long he'd actually been here.

"What happened here then, Civello?" Phillida says to the man in question, who half turns to his officer with a small frown.

"Fellow fisherman found the body early this morning, Sir. Or rather, he found the boat - then the body when he came to get a closer look. Devan Rodane, the man who found him. He knows one of the officers personally, went straight to his house and the Watchman followed him up here. He went and reported it in right after." Civello states, gruffly almost, folding his arms and staring at the body.

"Where's the man now?"

"One of the Watchman took him back to his house, bit of a state."

Phillida turns towards the body. He can believe it. "I'm not surprised, who was he?"

"I'd have expected you to observe the fact that this man is also part of the, as of currently closed, Dren investigation, Civello." a voice from behind Phillida buts in unexpectedly. "The man is Aelwin Merowald, Adamus. He's the father of Aurei Merowald, you know, that blonde whore who we questioned. Aren't you supposed to be the sort of person who picks up on these details? I thought you were supposed to harbour a moderate amount of intelligence."

Both of them turn their heads to see the Junior Investigator, Aurelius Avis, walking towards them, studying them appraisingly as he walks past, he stops just short of Phillida's elbow. He doesn't look very impressed (not that he ever does, the negative little git) and his amber eyes narrow as he ticks his head towards the corpse for emphasis. Unlike the lot of the Watchmen here, the boy remains unarmoured. Guess it's for the best; he can walk around with sinking.

In response to his remark, Civello makes a noise. "I did observe who the man was _and_ how he was related to your investigation, Avis. You are here, are you not?"

Aurelius smirks at him and it's clear he has a resort ready when Phillida jams a gloved finger into his shoulder. It shuts him up before he can even start. "Don't start, _either_ of you." the Captain cuts in, and then adds, as if an afterthought. "And be polite, Aurelius. This is what I keep on telling you about."

The boy just grumps, clearly not very happy about the idea of his fun being spoiled. "He's a local, obviously, lived in that backwater little hut near the water's edge. Did some digging while I was at the University, he sold scales to the alchemists there. Planning on retirement I'll wager."

Phillida snaps his head towards him, eyebrows raised beneath his helmet. "What where you doing in the University?"

"Does it matter?" Aurelius deflects, coolly, giving him a glance as he slowly moves towards body. "Looks like I'm going to have a field day with you, Monsieur." he says to it as he examines the area slowly, moving around in an arc of sorts, turning on his heels.

Civello snorts. "You really have a way with the corpses, don't you?"

"You seem jealous. Care to join him?"

"_Gentlemen_." Phillida warns, eyeing Civello with a faint frown. Aurelius snickers. "What did you know about him?

Civello claps his hands behind his back, all business. "We don't know a great deal about him, Sir. He wasn't much of a mixer - a widow, we believe. Kept himself to himself. Bit of an odd duck too, or so the local innkeeper thought. Reclusive. Never really got out much. The only definite thing we have on him at the moment is that he was a fisherman and that he had a daughter."

Aurelius meanwhile moves over towards the body slowly, examining its layout, the condition, among several other little details that are nothing but imperative. He crouches by the corpse's head, wrenching his chin up to stare at the Watchman hovering uncertainly a few feet away. "You said you found him like this morning?" he asks, examining the breath of the corpse's torso for a second time.

"About that. My guess is he's been here all night."

Aurelius snorts. "He has."

Frowning, he shifts further towards the left so he's line in line with the corpse's ribcage. Examining his forearm, he brings a pale hand out cautiously, lifting the sleeve up to expose a series of purple, bloated bruises. Humming thoughtfully under his breath, he then goes to grab the man's right hand, examining his fingernails. Nothing under his nails and, he realises after he examines the other hand, the man wasn't a nail biter either. Suggests that there was little to no struggle. Paralysis perhaps.

As for the bruises...

"Help me get his shirt off."

"Sir?"

"I need to see the extent of his injures. Hurry up."

When it finally comes off with the aid of a knife and a lot of tugging, Aurelius stands over the corpse, arms folded and expression scrunched up. It's not a pretty sight. Not that these things ever are. It captures Aurelius' attention in a manner he doesn't quite like - it's all very cornering, for a Law bringing point of reference. The father of a key suspect in one of the biggest human trafficking and smuggling case in the past decade and he turns up dea- _No_. Not just dead - murdered. Subject to torture. He can see the evidence. It doesn't bode well, not at all. Aurelius twigs it up pretty quickly; someone wanted to get information out of this fellow.

But _why_?

Aurelius rubs the left hand side of his jaw. Now that, is the question he should be considering.

Still, it's better to take everything one step at a time. Gather all the details.

The man's body is covered in a series of gruesome purple bruises - the same kind he saw on his arm. Aurelius ticks his head to the left as he examines them. Deep muscular. Impressive amount of force behind the punches. He crouches down against to feel the man's ribs, the ones that are under the most serve bruises. Most of them are broken, a few cracked. His eyes narrow as he spies the long, delicate cuts along the man's front. For a few moments they look quite random; the work of someone hacking and slashing with little care, but the glide of the cuts is not appropriate to such brutality. How can you cut someone randomly and have a perfect arc?

It's deliberate. It has to be.

Also, he realises as he continues to examine the cuts, there was two people inflicting the damage. Not one.

"Aurelius is handling the next of kin issue, I assume?"

Grunting impassively, Aurelius flicks his gaze up to eye Phillida, fixing the man with a particularly stern look. "She's no longer a witness, she's a suspect. I had a warrant sent out for questioning - she decided to go and pull a vanishing act, packed a few things and took off during the night." he's displeased when he says it, and rightfully so. Clearly that woman had more to her then a vulnerable outlook. They managed to undervalue her and she took advantage of it.

Aurelius hardens his jaw. He won't underestimate her again. Criminals are liars and she, was a very good actor indeed.

"None of her protective guard noticed?" Phillida raises his eyebrows. He's trying to come across as unfazed, perhaps in some form of patronising fashion, but Aurelius notes the way his mouth slightly opens. His eyes widen too, though for a very short and seemingly unnoticeable time. He's surprised.

"A few hours ago, I was asking that very same question. Regardless of how she pulled it off however, it's defiantly got something to do with her, it's as I expected." he steps away, standing upright and giving the corpse another once over. "Subject to torture, this one. Someone wanted to get _something_ out of him. They've gone to a lot of trouble to do so."

Civello frowns. "How'd you mean?"

Of course. Stupid fool wouldn't be able to figure out a suicide case.

Aurelius sighs, giving him a suffering look before explaining. Seriously, it's not that hard. "Anybody who is trained in the acts of torture knows it's about technique, rather than force. This poor bastard could have served better as a punching bag." he bends down again, looking at the corpse closer up. It makes him scowl. He'll need to examine the back - slightly difference in tissue is likely to show different results. Pulling the corpse up, he adjusts his stance before flipping the body over onto its front. Then he notices it, just below the neck. An incision. Slightly left of the vertebrate. Minor discolouration. Profound bruising around it - it would look like a bruise, perhaps. But Aurelius realises.

After all. Why in Oblivion would anyone punch someone there? There's not a lot to damage but if you did, the results would be catastrophic.

Simple. They're hiding it. It's not just any incision; it's an orifice for the poison to enter the bloodstream. Aurelius smirks. This is going to be a very interesting case indeed. Much more amusing then the reverse pickpocketing experiments he had planned for today.

"He's been poisoned." he says, dully. "Judging by the knife work and then the pattern of the bruising, they went to the trouble to hide it afterwards, make it look like a robbery."

Speaking of catastrophic...

He eyes the man's neck for a second time, moving forwards to have a feel of the vertebrate. Broken. A broken neck. That's bruises, cuts, a poisoned incision added to the fairly obvious fractured leg. Broken wrist. Broken thumb and ring finger on his left hand. That's a lot for one man, an old, sick man no less, to have to endure.

Phillida looks at him strangely. Aurelius ignores it. "Why would anyone want to torture him of all people?"

He shrugs, he thinks it would be pretty obvious by now. "Either it's about his daughter, or his daughter's acquaintance. I don't think it a coincidence that this fellow turns up the morning Dren is about to be executed." there is a long period of silence and Aurelius folds his arms. He's not impressed. Gods. How they managed clear an investigation before he arrived, he has no idea. "Oh come on!" he spits, shocked that no one shares his insight. "It's so obvious! Please, tell me what it's like to be so intolerably _ignorant_."

"Aurelius." Phillida warns, but then, he presses his lips into a thin line. "Any idea of what we are dealing with?"

He sighs, deflating so hard it actually hurts. "From what I can tell, judging by the close proximity to the home, the injures and the lack of splattering, he wasn't killed here - but I haven't had the chance to examine him properly yet. I'll be able to give you a far more accurate answer later. As for the moment, the bottoms of his trousers are caked in gravel, the same kind near the bridge that leads into Weye, so I'd assume he's been dragged here. Living or otherwise-" he turns towards one of the Watchmen. "Do me a favour, go to Weye and check the ground for any signs of major disturbance." with that, he turns back to Phillida, face scrunched up. "The wound on his back was relatively shallow, but it's discoloured - it'd look like a bruise if the person studying it was as _dense_ as a _flat wedg_e. Aside from that, he's got a broken neck, among several other bones. Lost a lot of blood from the leg. Fractured and judging by the damage, a blow with a heavy flat object was the cause of that particular injury." he stares forwards at the landscape before him for a few moments, thinking. "He was beaten in a very unfortunate manner, the broken neck and fractured thigh probably did it for him. Artery is severed there. He bled out. Would have been quick if it's any reassurance to you all - the poison may have paralysed him by then, if the broken neck hadn't."

"All caused by the same person?"

Aurelius smirks.

"No."

Phillida folds his arms. "Committing yourself, Avis?"

Aurelius gives him an incredibly flat look. "I only commit myself when I'm definite." moving down towards the corpse, he points to the gruesome pattern of bruises and cuts. Then towards a slightly purpled one. "The knife-work here compared to the rest of the handiwork is different."

"Define different."

"No two people inflect damage the same, we vary in size, in strength and weight. If we were both to hit Civello in the face -" Civello gives him a glare for _that_ example. "- the resulting damage would be different. Even if you had two equally skilled individuals using the same technique, there are still differences; you'd have to be exactly the same. The cuts here are deliberate, in the sense that the person inflicting them is being light handed on purpose. The glide of the knife is angled towards the left ever so slightly - indication that the individual is also left handed, with a very small hand-span. The beatings however are deep muscular, whoever started beating him afterwards is a big fellow, capable of a lot of force and I can tell for a fact that the hand-span is much larger in comparison. It's the knife-work that is more relevant however, I've seen work of a similar degree before, though not with poisons." he shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about her. Not anymore. "It's not a robbery, that much I can tell you at the time being. You don't poison someone, keep them alive and then beat them unless you have a reason."

"Could be a whack job." Civello suggests and for once, Aurelius nods his head.

It could be. If he can arrest a religious cannibal with a fine hankering for thumbs - he can accept a story about a two people who rob people then beat them in a very time consuming, particular fashion.

But Aurelius knows better than that. Something else is going on and it seems that Phillida knows to.

"Civello, get the body out of here. Set up shop back at the headquarters. Aurelius, you're with me - we need to examine the man's home."

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

* * *

Aelwin Merowald's home was a lower class affair, cramped and built with materials that were likely to deteriorate rapidly in a few years. It's not much bigger then Aurelius' own quarters and stands a good few hundred metres away from the main road that joins the Red Ring. Far enough to not be concerned by the constant traffic going into the City, close enough to make it a short distance to walk. The small strip of garden that sat under the window by the door had been given over to the growing of herbs. Aurelius gives them a small glance as he walks by, recognising the various plants. It's very well-tended - which is slightly unusual. Merowald did not look like a man that could go herb tending whenever he pleased; age was catching up to him.

Aurelius and Phillida entered the home quietly, feeling a small amount of relief in getting out of the wind and rain. Chances are they'd only have a small amount of time to have a quick search of the house. Phillida has a lot of other responsibilities and it's likely that Aurelius would be needed elsewhere. It's only been a few weeks since the sting operation on Dren, but he's been making something of a name for himself since. Few people like Aurelius, even fewer will openly admit that they need his help, but at the end of the day; he's good. Very good.

"Did we interrupt you this morning, Avis?" Phillida asks as he pulls back a dusted curtain to let more light into the house. Turning away to avoid inhaling it, Aurelius examines the small illuminated home. There's just enough space for a hearth, a small table, a bed, a well-worn armchair and a chest before the foot of the bed.

Humming thoughtfully under his breath, Aurelius gives him a glance before working on examining the area around him. "Just finished a homicide."

"For who?"

"Lex."

"Ah. How did it go?"

"There's a stack of reports on it waiting for you." nose wrinkling, the Junior Investigator frowns as he moves over to one end of the house. Half stooped down, he grimaces. "You smell that?"

"Smell what?" Phillida frowns at him. "I don't smell anything."

"Faint smell of Columbine..." Aurelius makes another face and turns to look down at his feet, shuffling back somewhat and grimacing. "If he was killed here, there'd be blood stains. Columbine is used in complex potions that help with the casting of chameleon spells. It's also this property that makes them... remarkable for removing stains. It's usually far more potent than this, but it's obviously been mixed with other things. Gall perhaps."

Phillida gives Aurelius a thoughtful look. "If they went to clean up any evidence, that's a very clever way to go about it."

"We're not looking for an average enforcer here." Aurelius replies. "Whoever did this is a professional. I mean grade A full on assassin professional."

"Dark Brotherhood?"

Aurelius makes a noise. "Why, though? That lot don't kill people at a whim, it's bad for business. They have a target and that's that."

"Perhaps they didn't mean to kill Merowald. Like you said, he was tortured beforehand." Phillida folds his arms as he examines the rest of the room. "He was old, very old, if he was sick or frail they might have overdone it. It's a common trend, people get paid to rough another person up and they get a little too involved. Wind up with a dead body on their hands. You know that."

"Of course." Aurelius half snarls, tipping his head back slightly and scowling.

"I've been on the Brotherhood's case for years, it's happened before. A lot of the Brotherhood isn't massively skilled, they're good, but people make mistakes."

The younger man stares at him for a few moments. Aurelius might be smart, but Phillida knows this is one thing the boy isn't likely to excel at. He's intelligent, granted - incredibly perceptive and a damn good investigator, but he's also young. Too young. He won't have the necessary experience to directly understand the claims that Phillida makes. Still, it's not an issue in the long run. Young and green he may be, Aurelius is an adept learner and the Captain doesn't think it long before he starts catching up. In more ways than one, he realises with a grunt as Aurelius walks past him and observes that the prat has sprouted another few centimetres since the Dren incident. Sadly, his ego is developing hand in hand with his size. If earlier was any damn indication.

The chilly room smelled of stale smoke, as if it hadn't been aired in a while and a layer of dust seemed to cover everything and the faint chill makes Phillida grimace. "This reminds me of a case we had last year." Aurelius makes to roll his eyes, but doesn't stop the older man in his storytelling. "We had a tip off that a family was being targeted by thieves, so we go and make sure that they're nice and safe, every day, for about a week. Then one day the mother's sister comes into the city for a visit and before we can get to her, we find her beaten - half gone by the time we managed to get her to a healer. When she was talking again, we found out they had gone asking questions. Gruesome stuff. Lex got them in the end- wait, what? What is it?"

Aurelius is looking at him with a very odd expression on his face.

"Say that end bit again."

"Wha-"

The boy moves forwards, standing a strict few metres away, staring Phillida in the face. "Repeat the story."

He has no idea how this is relevant, but he decides to humour the prat. Sighing, he recites the story. "A family was being targeted, we were protecting them-"

"The thieves couldn't get to the family members."

"That's right."

"But they could get to aunt..." Aurelius snaps his fingers suddenly, the sound is sharp and it echoes faintly. "Was the daughter informed of when Dren was to be executed?"

Phillida grunts. "Not that I'm aware, but I never questioned her in person, Civello did."

"Civello is a trained snake charmer; he butters them up before he questions them. its how he gets reliable answers." Aurelius starts clicking his fingers more frequently, a habit that only occurs when he's deep in thought and thinking of something particularly significant. It's one of the few outward signs that he's on roll. "He might have told her when he was to be executed."

"He shouldn't have done." Phillida frowns. "It was kept under the hat for a reason."

"What are the odds, that a couple of assassins wanted to go and kill Dren, but didn't know where he was or when he was going to hang?"

Phillida stares at Aurelius for a good long time. "Dren had a lot of enemies, and I mean a lot. Half of the Waterfront wanted to stick a knife in his back. It's not that implausible."

Aurelius follows on, jaw set, but his gaze is alive with a certain flair. "Assassins go after his daughter to get information, but she goes and vanishes, so they go to the one person she may have told in confidence..."

Aurelius doesn't continue, just barges out the house and towards the Imperial City in a full on sprint.

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

* * *

It's too late.

Skidding to a violent halt, Aurelius' expression drops as he surveys the scene before him with varying degrees of speed. Somewhere above him, the door to the prison block slams open and he can just about hear Phillida shouting. A warning. His name. Twice. Aurelius however doesn't reply, he can't. The only thing he actually manages to pull off is the slight movement of his hands, fingers feeling cold and numb as he suddenly runs them through his hair.

His name sounds again; this time is less furious and more concerned. He'd be bemused in any other scenario, but now... not now. By the Gods... not now.

Again, he doesn't reply. In fact, Aurelius finally understands what the term 'Mind ground to a halt' means, because as of right now, all forms of coherent judgement are completely fried by the image of Dren sat there on his chair, crimson river spilling through the cracks in the cobbles under his chair, head wrenched back...

Throat slit with a left handed cut.

"_Shit_."

Aurelius stumbles backwards towards against the wall and slides down harshly, boots slipping against the cobbles as he lands heavily on his backside. His hands are still in his hair.

"Aurelius...?"

This can't be a coincidence.

"Aureli-... oh Gods... Don't tell me..."

He turns, wordlessly towards Phillida and blinks.

"Dead."

Sometimes, he really fucking hates it when he's right.

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**


	6. P I - C IV : Flattery

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

* * *

**GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!**

WOW. It's been awhile.

And this is a **Warning**.

~Faulkner requested a heavily psychopathic Aurelius, so I felt the need to oblige. You got it! Be forewarned. Contentious excessive violence.

If you do not wish to see... (read?) all the horrible bits, I suggest skipping the middle section completely. The first and third are fine... at least, 'fine' as in 'Aurelius-isn't-gleefully-torturing-people-fine'.

* * *

|** PART ONE** |  
**CHAPTER IV**

FLATTERY

It wasn't until well into the evening that the Imperial City became interested, and perhaps even dismayed, by the murder of Arvyn Dren.

As always for the Junior Investigator such public concerns had been easy to ignore. In Aurelius' opinion, when it came to the inner workings of an investigation, the public were adequate for two things; providing rumours and providing distractions. Anything else he made sure to purposely disregard. Their concerns did not have anything to do with identifying the killers, therefore, he gave little, if any, attention to them.

However, he'd be lying if he said that it wasn't important on some scale.

By the time he had managed to get back to the Prison District the people of the Imperial City had already learnt a lot of the particulars. It makes him uneasy. Rumours are a lot like forest fires and after making his way to the city's graveyards and back again, more than once had he heard the terms 'Dark Brotherhood' and 'Murder' thrown around in their idle, slow minded conversations. Aurelius doesn't care what they get up to in their spare time, much less in conversation, but if these rumours were to spark alight, he can see panic making an appearance.

Panic often leads to the disclosure of additional information. Additional information means that the criminals they are perusing can adapt accordingly. Aurelius knows; it's a vicious circle if handled wrong.

Phillida however, was quick to ensure that this would not be the case and for once, Aurelius felt inclined to believe him. For now. The Captain was an avid Dark Brotherhood hunter - he knew what to do in such cases. In his speech, he made sure to keep the most important of the facts suppressed, making sure not to bring forward all the information. He had given out curt and blunt responses to their questions, before stressing that the investigation wouldn't lead itself in the way of farewell, hastily pushing forward Civello in the hopes that he'd deal with the aftermath.

With a warning that if he dared disclose anything _else_ this time, that he'd be scrubbing Watchmen's boots until his wrists were swollen.

Overhearing the comment had left Aurelius smug, but judging by the look Phillida had given him afterwards, he'd be joining the disgruntled Civello if he didn't perform to expectation.

The crime itself was of interest to him, but there was a deeper, darker pull that had Aurelius take up a lead position on this particular case. Often enough, he was an unenthusiastic participant when it came to most of the cases flung his way. He would avoid the weight of responsibility, dodge the paperwork and only really cooperate by offering the occasional half-interested remark, but this time he was involved - very involved. Up to the point where he solely stated that if anyone else got in the way, they'd be burying them alongside Dren. That is, of course, if they found enough to bury the interrupter in the first place. It was a lot to take on, but Aurelius hadn't worked up solo when he was a boy and untrained to get knocked down here.

That, and he had Phillida. Which was something else entirely.

While Civello was often considered Captain Phillida's apprentice - a better lieutenant in the description, Aurelius was best known as something of an unofficial protégé. Being exposed to the criminal element of the Imperial City may have started his interest, but it was the close intimacy with Phillida that developed it further. Made it into more than just a back alley bashing and skulking around in the dark looking for answers. The Junior Investigator was smarter, undoubtedly, but Phillida had expertise when it came to cases of this nature. He's both caught and killed assassins before. Even survived an attempt on his life. Murder is a broad scene, it happens for different reasons, but Phillida understands the subject of assassination enough to call himself an authority on the topic.

But, that also made his presence, while useful, also dangerous. As is shown when the man walks in to eye all the documents, diagrams and maps pinned up against the north facing wall of Aurelius' quarters.

"Huh." he frowns, peering at the map placed towards the left hand side of the display. "What happened with Kvatch?"

Aurelius was lucky he was facing away from the Captain, otherwise the sudden change in expression would have given him away.

The Investigator knows that there is more to this assassination than just getting to Dren. It's one of the reasons he reacted the way he did. As he sits, arms folded over the back of his chair, staring at all evidence pinned up against the wall, he can't help but think about... _her_. It's been two years, six months and, he pauses, nine...teen days since. Two years of solid work and fulfilling distractions, but now it's all coming back. Dren wasn't just murdered. He was murdered in the exact same fashion as his mother was. Positioned the same. Turned towards the door in proud display. Someone had wanted him to see that - him. It's incredibly unlikely that Phillida would have got it, nevermind Civello and all of his brain-dead colleagues. No. The assassin seems to understand him better than he does himself. Something is clearly going down, and pretty sodding quickly. This thought suddenly becomes ten times more aggravating when he realises, with a flair of sudden rage, that he's the one smack bang in the middle of it all.

And what's worse is that he doesn't know _why_.

It made him paranoid, and for a good reason. Either he had been recognised, or someone good had tipped the assassin off, because Aurelius knows for a definite, full proof fact, that he keeps a low profile. Enough of a low profile that you'd have to be looking for him to know where he was, and even then, he'd need pointing out in a crowd. There is enough evidence to support this. Plenty of times Phillida has introduced him and people have been taken aback, seemingly surprised that the 'best investigator they had' wasn't even a man yet. In the Prison District, he's known on a public scale as just another one of the trainees. Higher up, he's just Aurelius Avis - a name on a piece of paper. Higher than that, and you know him when you see him. Part of this is also Phillida's work.

So yes. Aurelius is feeling paranoid. Even more so now, because he has absolutely no idea how to respond to the Captain's question without giving his position away. Of course, Aurelius knows Phillida well; it's unlikely that he's going to use the information about his mother's death to his advantage in any way, but regardless, it's not something he wants to bring up.

The more information a man has, the stronger his position.

Eyeing the map with the three murder scenes marked, he grimaces, half turning his head away. "Another murder scene." the Investigator shrugs. "I've given the area around Dren's cell a look, you finished with the idiots upstairs?"

Phillida glances at him, but doesn't say anything in regards to the obvious deflection. Aurelius would hide it better, usually, but he's too tired. Too worn down. He's past the point of panic now, merely lingering in a feeling of idle numbness.

"For now." the Captain grumbles in reply. "Brotherhood are one kettle of fish, but a murder in the Imperial Prison is another thing entirely. It's got the Commander in a right state." taking a seat at the desk positioned near the window, Phillida raises a plate casually. "You hungry?"

"No." Aurelius can smell the cooked meal from here, it's covered in some meat based gravy, but he's not in the mood. "Don't put it on the desk, I've yet to scrub it down."

Phillida gives him a vaguely mistrusting look.

"Experiments." Aurelius offers with a shrug.

"_Mmm Hmm_."

As for the area around Dren's cell, Aurelius went into an explanation of his findings. He'd only given the area a minute examination, but the circumstances of his death and the little evidence only served to make the case more complex. In the first place, the cell is situated alongside five others, inside a separate, contained block. One door in, one door out and this door was to be kept locked at all times. There was a patrol that ran across the outer cordon, a three man team and Aurelius had observed the time gap. A guard walked by the door every twenty four seconds. Which meant that the Assassin was either remarkably skilled at picking some of the most secure locks in Cyrodiil, or had a key.

He'd already asked - there were only four copies. One for each member of the patrol and another for the commanding jailer.

Leaving was also another issue, supposing they did not come out the way they came, the only other way was to somehow squeeze through the bars of the window. Aurelius had checked that too, but the drop was at least twenty feet and a bed of crocuses were that were in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the dirt showed any sign of being disturbed in the slightest and then, suppose a man managed to climb up the damn wall, there was no signs. The stone was old, weathered and slightly crumbling on the surface. He'd given it a kick and like he expected, a faint layer of stone chipped off, revealing the paler surface beneath. The only solution was that they came in through the door. Somehow. Despite the fact that the cordon was frequented thoroughfare and that none of the three prisoners in the surrounding cells heard a thing.

Yet there was the dead man, with a wound that must have caused an instantaneous death.

It was further complicated by the absence of a motive. Oh, of course, Dren had enemies, but Aurelius knows that the assassin clearly had more on their mind than just offing' Dren and carrying on with their merry way. If that was the case, then it would have been simpler. Stab the fool and be done with it.

There is the hollow thud at the door, a sloppy knock and Aurelius flings himself backwards towards the front of his chair, looking over his shoulder and keeping steady by gripping the back of it. Phillida is less surprised, having not been ripped from concentration, but simply lowers his fork and turns towards the door, brow lowered. "Enter!" he barks and it's wrenched open to show the face of Captain Gepard Montrose. He seems momentarily surprised to be faced with Phillida, rather than Aurelius.

"Watchman postings." he says in the way of explanation, raising the hand in which was clutching the described document.

Aurelius doesn't bother to hide the sneer.

Montrose was, in Aurelius' eyes, a pathetic creature. One of the most tactless of people to have ever stood on the face of the Nirn. A fluffy, feathery, undefined peacock of a man, perfectly good natured, perhaps, but a complete and utter horseshite of a Watchman. He was one of those men who was in the Imperial Legion because he was expected to. Hereditary titles. Grudgingly, Watchmen like Lex and Phillida had, over the years, earned some form of reluctant respect because they treated their positions as a calling, rather than some mindless profession. Montrose meanwhile, was only concerned with how high he could climb the ladder before his inevitable retirement. In many ways, he was the very embodiment of a cliché north-eastern Breton, in that he's about the size, breath and intelligence of the average twig. There is a difference between being simply educated and having a moderate amount of smarts; Montrose belonged in the former category. He doesn't help his case by mostly communicating with non-committal grunts.

You could have a more scintillating conversation with a mentally retarded pot-plant, Aurelius wagers. Though Phillida has asked on numerous occasions for him to avoid mentioning this to Montrose himself.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

"Give it here then." Aurelius mutters, fingers snapping as he extends his hand. Montrose raises an eyebrow, gaze flickering towards Phillida for further instruction. He wasn't about to take orders from that brat of all people.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who one leans towards, Phillida took that exact moment to busy himself with his dinner, decidedly not looking up at either of them as he cuts his mutton in half.

Gaze flicking and zeroing in on Aurelius, Montrose hands it over. "I've looked at them. There's two abnormalities."

"And I'll presume you've decided to investigate the causes of said abnormalities." Aurelius examines the papers with varying levels of interest. Discarding two of them close to immediately to pay better attention to the third remaining page. Montrose grunts, inclining his head slightly so Aurelius knows that this particular noise means 'yes'.

"Keep me updated with what you find." Phillida remarks after swallowing, pointing at Montrose with his fork. "Dismissed."

The other Captain leaves with the clank of armour, shutting the door behind him as he does so. Aurelius doesn't bother to give a farewell, just ponders over poorly drawn table on the page before him. Thumbing the bottom right corner slowly, he glances at Phillida languidly, who is watching Aurelius with an unreadable look. Quietly observing. Waiting. The Investigator doesn't bother to make him wait - standing on ceremony is a pointless affair.

He offers the paper with one sharp movement. "We know how they got in at least."

"They. So, defiantly the two assassins who killed Merowald?"

Aurelius hums under his breath. That is no longer his concern, he knows when they did it and now, he knows how. Just a matter of finding out who. He turned these facts over in his mind, leaning forwards to rest against the back of his chair again, chin digging painfully into the edge. If he found out who pointed them in Merowald's direction, perhaps, than he could then work back from there. Find out where they came from. Where they had been seen last. If at all. It's hard to keep completely anonymous in the Imperial City - someone, somewhere is likely to see you. Somehow. Something clicks in his brain and he tilts his head ever so slightly.

Now that's an idea.

He knows where to start. Leaning back, he grabs his shortsword from its rack near the door. A gift, actually. Much better than that piece of trash he stole from Kvatch. He examines the blade, eyes flicking over to Phillida when he makes a noise of distaste.

"No."

Their gazes meet again and lock, hard.

"Care to elaborate, Captain Phillida?" Aurelius asks, tone mockingly polite, but Phillida doesn't rise to the bait. Pity.

"We have a word for people your age. It's called 'Children' and it's at points like this where I have to treat you like one. There's no way you're going."

"I'm hardly a boy."

"No, but you're hardly a man either."

Aurelius leans forwards against the back of his chair again, deliberately sheathing his shortsword for later use. It doesn't go unmissed. The Junior Investigator didn't want it to. He grumps then, hard. Hard enough to make his lungs ache. For a split second, Phillida became worried.

But he knows, so he drops the suspicion. He knows that Junior Investigator never hurt people because he couldn't necessarily help it. He did it for some other reason. That's the worst kind. Phillida had warned him right at the start that if he went back to his old antics, if he dared lay a hand on anyone innocent, that he'd cut the prat down himself. Good theoretical thinker or no, a threat to society is a threat to society.

Despite that though, Phillida doesn't want to kill Aurelius. He doesn't. And admittedly, bonkers or not, Aurelius doesn't want that either. He knows what this is. Some messed up way of reasoning. The brat always acted out of intelligent self-interest, rather then some bizarre form of insanity like most people claim, and so, to keep everyone safe, Phillida had made sure to keep other things interesting. Interesting and Dominant. It's these two things that Aurelius responds to the best. Why else would he continue to be told what to do? He's never had to do so before. No. Phillida holds a subversive dominance. Has to.

He does wonder, though, if Aurelius actually realised.

"Surely a brilliant mind doesn't have to make threats." the Captain notes, absently and Aurelius ticks his head to the left ever so slightly. Then he deflates. Fine. He can work around this. "If you're planning on pulling that stint off, I want Lex going in with you."

Aurelius gives Phillida a long, pained look. "You can't be serious."

Phillida looks pretty serious. "Even if you are on par with this lot. Last time you were in the Waterfront district you nearly got stabbed, you're an Investigator, not a one man army."

"I was drunk." Aurelius points out, scowling at the older man over the back of his chair. "And Lex is infamous on the Waterfront; he'll give me away."

"He'll keep you in line." the Captain it seems, will not be persuaded. Not that it matters, Aurelius has ways of getting around things and Phillida knows it. Adamus has to loosen up his expectations for the Investigator. Good behavior? That's a lot to expect. The Captain will settle for nobody dying or being maimed, really. "He doesn't have to be hovering around you constantly, just to be within shouting distance when things ultimately go wrong and the inexperienced young hothead needs a plate of armour between his sorry hide and whatever scum is nearest." Aurelius rolls his eyes. Phillida frowns. "That's an order, by the way. I've gone half way, now it's your turn."

The Investigator grumps coldly, the bitter immaturity of a youth rumbling in the broad chest of a developing adult.

"You're no fun anymore, old man."

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

* * *

As a general rule people joined the Legion because they wanted to, they wanted to serve, to protect, and not because they wanted the retirement benefits. It was something Aurelius learnt - and more importantly, learnt to despise - pretty early on. As a direct result, those who climb the ladder to hold the responsibility of senior rank are often the most eager. You had to earn your rank in the Imperial Watch. Either by performing well, or by surrounding yourself with those who don't.

With that in mind, it was likely that Hieronymus Lex would earn his rank sooner rather than later - because out of all the Watchmen Aurelius had the misfortune of knowing personally, Lex was the most overzealous of the lot.

While most men tried their hardest to get out of extra hours on patrol, Lex's regimen was vigorous on purpose. He made it so. Practically begged for extra hours. He was one of those Watchman that made Aurelius nervous, because unlike Phillida who turned a blind eye to Aurelius' frequent bouts of aggressive behaviour, providing he got his job done, Lex made sure that all acts of misbehaviour was punished. Hard. Aurelius knows that, someday, Phillida will be promoted to Commander and it's highly likely that Aurelius will be left working under Lex. That future, in particular, he wasn't looking forward to, partly because Lex is an indirect threat and partly because... _well_...

"You suited and booted, sweetie?"

Aurelius' eye twitches imperceptibly as Lex addresses him. Tugging the hood of his cloak over his head, he ignores the Watchman and instead eyes the expanse of the Waterfront docks. His... informant will likely be in the housing area of the district, but he can't have Lex with him, otherwise the bastard would likely spot them both and make a run for it. He can't have that. Lex will have to be removed. Distracted.

"We need to find one of the beggars." Aurelius states, dully. "He's likely to know something."

"This about your investigation?"

"Yes."

Lex purses his lips, regarding the young man for a few moments. "Which beggar?"

Of course, the officer is well familiar with the poor folk in this particular district. It's a well-known, if highly debatable, fact that the beggars of the Waterfront district are protected by a certain someone. In exchange, they give information. Beggars are, if nothing else, good for picking up stray bits of data here and there. They understand the streets, walk them, live upon them and nobody cares. Everyone ignores them and it's because of this neglect, that the beggars are able to take the advantage of loose lips, unwatched backs and general mistakes to security. Who would be watching out for a mere beggar? After all, they are everywhere.

Aurelius had spent a good time getting to understand this trend. When he was a freelance, he operated on such similar levels and it was because of this that he became... familiar with a few faces.

"Bernard Opus." Aurelius lies, simply, eyeing the area with a frown. "He's been sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. When was the last time you saw him?"

"Opus... he's been keeping low for a while." Lex notes with some difficulty. "I wouldn't know where to look exactly."

Aurelius hides the smile. Lex, while intelligent in someone respects, was a Watchman at heart - "_Never compromise. Never blink. Never wink at injustice. Never quit trying to make this a better city for everyone_." - Poor bastard didn't realise when he was being played. Then again, most people don't realise that they are being fooled to begin with. Despite not knowing the reason behind such emotions, Aurelius could fake them well. Oh, it was bothersome, but when it came to acting, Aurelius found he was getting better over time, rather than worse.

Criminals are liars, after all.

"Go across the docks, I'll give the residential area a look. Walk across and I'll meet you on the other side. He has to be somewhere." Aurelius grimaces. "And if we can't find him, I'm sure someone else can."

"Like they'd tell us."

"We'll see."

Slowly, he and Lex begin to fan out, eventually splitting up. The likelihood is that Lex will want to find him before Aurelius does - not that Aurelius is even trying - he's after the 'Gray Fox' as it were and Aurelius knows for a definite fact that Bernard Opus has been on his agenda for a while. The fact that Aurelius has hinted at potential illegal activity is too much bait for Lex to resist. Like a slaughterfish smelling fresh flesh.

It's easier, now that he's been doing it for longer. A foreign shadow moving around the clinging darkness of the Waterfront's poorest area, Aurelius makes little noise as he walks. He'd done well to not wear his uniform today - it's loud, for one. Obvious for two. The dark fabric of his cloak and trousers blends in well with the fifthly atmosphere, despite being immaculate himself. A blend of tones, none of them bright. It was filthy. That hasn't changed. The buildings are filthy, with filthy windows and filth-covered rooftops. The streets are covered with it. The air stinks of it. All the world's cleansing and scrubbing would never cleanse this place fully.

He may be able to avoid the worst parts of the Waterfront if his little friend is where he usually is. If not, then it doesn't matter. He can't hide forever - especially when he isn't even obscuring himself yet. Ignoring the stench of rotting meat, rotting defecation and rotting people, Aurelius moves towards a scrappy section of once-garden. There, sat in a pathetic little huddle against the wall is the person he was looking for. He lets the perverse grin show. Puny Ancus is still holding his cup, likely hoping that someone will hand him a few coins. The fibres in his shirt are weather worn, dirt is encrusting his auburn hair, the gleam in his hazel eyes is gone and he lets out a strangled cry of surprise when Aurelius drags him up by the back of his collar. The Investigator spies the swollen tongue, black and blue bruises, blood covered sores clumping up on the skin around his collarbones.

Shakes? No, no, there's no fever. Witless Pox would be an obvious suggestion - there's lots of rats in the Waterfront area. Another look at the sores proves that they're from flies. That's it. Yellow Tick Disease. Common illness. Common infection - better wash his hands after this.

"Good Evening, Puny." Aurelius greets with a backhanded swipe across the begger's jaw.

The force sends Puny spinning into the wall and in response, he makes a strangled noise of fear, before looking around. None of the usual scum are around, unfortunately for the beggar. Usually they don't abide people attacking the 'poor and needy' this openly. Which is why without warning, Aurelius slams the heel of his palm into the beggar's throat, dragging him back behind one of the nearer shacks. Out of sight, out of mind. "Don't think about shouting." he says, shoving the beggar down onto the ground before him and half crouching, leaning against his knees. "We don't want that, do we now?"

"Please..." Puny gasps, not getting up, but rather curling in a vague protective position. "I 'aven't done anything."

Aurelius sighs, his mouth twisting in faint annoyance. Puny knew then that this would not be a good visit. Sometimes when he got attacked, it got mean, but he knew with this dark haired devil, with the dangerous eyes that it would start mean and finish worse. "Did I ask you what you may or may not have done?" Aurelius asks. "I don't care. I'm here for information." he kneels down further so they are close to face to face. "You have it."

"I can't say anythin'."

"And why not?"

"B-because, they're dangerous." the beggar glances around again, but nobody will see them here. Hear them, perhaps, but nobody would come running.

He didn't see it coming, except for a slight shift in Aurelius' weight. Suddenly there was the pain and pressure of a blow to the side of the head and he lost balance, fell straight into the mud. "And I'm not?" Aurelius asks, mock hurt evident in his tone, the words drawled out with a faint purr.

"No- no, you're dangerous! Real dangerous!"

Aurelius stood, turned and then, spun around to face the beggar again, slamming the toes of his boot straight into the fallen man's groin. He doubled up. "Flattery won't get you anywhere with me, Ancus." he shifted again to look the beggar in the face. "You can kiss my boots all you like, but it won't work. It works with the Guild though, doesn't it? You play pathetic so they'll pity you and give you a purpose. A meal to fill your belly at the end of a hard day of disappointments. But it doesn't work with me, Ancus. I'd rather kill you first. Show them what you really are." he lifted his foot, took a step and then knelt on Puny, his knee pressing hard into the man's stomach, just below his breastbone. "Tell me what you know."

"About what?"

More weight was added.

"Two people, perhaps one. Likely Brotherhood. They came here looking for information. About Dren, or about a girl - or, her father. Pick one."

"I don't-"

More pressure, it was getting hard to breathe.

"Don't make any mistakes. I could kill you like this." Aurelius whispers, leaning so close that the only thing in Ancus' vision was Aurelius' gaze boring into his. "Just press and press and press until you're dead. Squeeze all the air right out. Wad'ya say, Puny? Gonna play? I haven't been around in such a long time, Puny. We need to make up for it." then, he lets up, just a little bit, enough for Puny to get a strangled breath in-

Then the knee slams back down again.

"Tell me, Puny. Do you educate yourself on human anatomy? You don't? Well then, Puny. Allow me to educate you. Let me tell you, Puny, that there are two hundred and six bones in the human body - two hundred and twelve in an eleven one, but I digress, I'm getting distracted-" he grabs Puny's nose with a strong, harsh grip, cutting off his air supply completely. "Eight pints of blood, twenty four ribs and twenty one feet of intestine. You, will suffocate in - now this is just an estimation - two minutes and..." his gaze travels from his chest to his face again, making a show of mulling it over. "Twenty three seconds, shall we say?" he lets go, and the whole process repeats itself. Short breath, cut off straight away again. It hurt. "That's not enough time to play with it all, is it Puny?"

The ribs are the easiest to start with, of course, so Aurelius makes the most out of them. They take so little pressure. He lifts himself upwards and slams back down again, adjusting his stance ever so slightly upwards, so he'd hit one properly. Fifth rib down, left. Puny lets out a gasp, supposed to be a yell, Aurelius supposes, but he's still catching his breath. The lungs are crushed, a moment of weak pain, the beggar's breathing... stinted. He adds more pressure, watching as the man's chest heaves with difficulty, lungs struggling to inflate in longing.

"Would you rather I shouted for Lex, Puny?" Aurelius asks. "He's heavier than I am."

"I c-ack! I can't tell-"

"Wrong answer." Aurelius, again, repeats the whole series of movements. Another knee under the breastbone, bone grates against the panting organs and then the weakness overcomes the beggar's body. There comes the irresistible snap, muffled under layers of tissue. Aurelius' hand flies back to the man's nose, gripping the bone and skin hard. A constant struggle for air, sharp bone jammed against shallow pounding flesh.

"They'll find-"

Aurelius leans in further. Puny's chest begins to shudder and thrum, crying desperately for air. Smirking, Aurelius leans over further and counts a happy minute backwards. Sixty seconds until he suffocates. He can feel the beggar slowly cave beneath him. Fifty seconds, from experience, Aurelius suspects that his lungs would burn. Pain. Faint, but creeping. Lingering. Forty seconds. His heart starts to stutter. Thirty seconds. Aurelius drinks in his terror like a parched nomad. Twenty... fifteen...

Six, five, four...

He slams a hand into Puny's sternum and forces the man to breathe.

"Is that a threat, you little bastard?" Aurelius hisses into the trembling shell of Puny's ear. "Tell you what, don't tell me. I'll move on, and I'll do this - all of this, to the next beggar I come across. Except they won't know what you know. They'll beg and plead and pray, but I'll tell them that it was Puny that brought this onto them, all because he was too afraid to say, and I need answers. Then, I'll let them go and they'll look upon you and hate you. Despise you." he grabs the beggar's chin and forces him to look straight, straight into his eyes. "Then I'll come back, and I'll drown you, right in front of them and they'll let me get away with it. Puny Ancus will die, right before them, and they'll just let it happen." Ancus pants and gasps and chokes and shudders like a wet slimy fish, flailing about, so Aurelius grabs the column of his neck and drags his scrunched, pained face up to meet his. "But any person who's lived as long as you on the Waterfront must be a little smart, so..." his grip will leave bruises, Aurelius tightens it just to be sure. "You're going to tell me. Now. I've waited long enough."

He stands to let Puny recover, if only slightly. He makes a show of fiddling with the hilt of his shortsword.

"T-They c... ack... they came during the night..." the beggar grits out, collapsed against the floor heavily, no energy to even move.

"What then?" Aurelius asks, eyebrows raised.

"They asked 'bout the girl..." Puny coughs, hard. "I didn't tell 'em about her... that she's 'iding with the Redguard fellows, tol' them about 'er old man, but they'll know... she'll... they're gonna... I - I overheard them, yes? Said they'd 'get the uniforms' 'an, yes - 'make a show'... jus' bout finding out when. Din' say if they 'ere Brotherhood, 'ister Avis… I swear, sir, I swear."

They didn't have to.

Aurelius rolls his eyes, letting out a patient sigh. Without warning, he unhooked a small bag from his belt and throws it at the beggar near his feet. It hits him, hard, but the sound of coins was enough to stop the beggar from making a sound of pain. "Was it really that hard?" he asks, slowly, lip curling with distaste. "Get to a healer, you pathetic bastard." he's just about to make his leave when he stops, frozen and turns around slowly. Narrowing his eyes, he zeros in on Puny. "If I find out that you've lied to me. I'll force feed you that coin and watch you choke to death, have I made myself clear?"

Puny nods.

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

* * *

'The Redguard fellows.'

It wasn't much to go by and as Aurelius trudges down the dark streets, dark alleys and past dark people, he finds himself drifting in thought. It's a cold night. The smell of the docks hangs heavy in the air. He wouldn't be surprised if it started to snow. It wasn't common in the Imperial City, too far south, but it wasn't unheard of. It had been a frigid year. A few of the Watchmen he passes give him odd looks, but they don't say anything. Neither does Aurelius. Lex'll find him when he needs him.

Leaning against one of the warehouses in one of the more obscured areas, Aurelius tucks his arms back into his cloak, delving into the shadows so he can watch people pass on their way to complete whatever little plans they had laid out for the evening.

He needs to think about this. Consult some of the authorities around here. See who lives where.

Puny will likely make a noise after this - warn her, if she isn't gone already. It's likely... possible. The 'Redguards' is a very vague term. There's a lot of them round here, sailors, pirates, workmen, commoners, beggars. Gods, Ancus could have said 'Not an elf' and it would have been just as useful. Aurelius runs a hand over his jaw, frowning hard. It's not just that either.

"Make a show."

Aurelius didn't really know what that meant in this current context - sure, they'd pulled off the technique to startle him with Dren, but still made little sense. Why would they deliberately grab his attention? That murder, it was clearly a jab. Ramming the stick where it hurts. Yet everything Aurelius has been told about the Brotherhood, everything he had learned... it was unconventional, at best. According to Phillida, the Brotherhood did not tend to overexert themselves in the Imperial City - it was too dangerous. Time and time again, they'd attempted to keep a low profile in order to elude the City Watch and get the job done. If anything, they should be trying to avoid his direct attention, not the other way around. So what in Oblivion did they want? Well, he could have a good guess as to what they wanted, but Aurelius didn't know. First his mother, then the criminal he is investigating. It's too personal to just be a big middle finger towards the authorities. Aurelius supposed they could be targeting Phillida - that made sense, but again, his _mother_. It didn't add up.

Ah well. It's something.

Phillida will want a report regardless.

He starts to pull away from the wall when he freezes. Hard. Full on stops in his tracks. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps. But it was a lingering feeling, something persistent that sat uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. It wasn't perception, it was instinct.

Something felt wrong.

He doesn't glance over his shoulder to see where they are. If he does that, and he ends up looking in the wrong direction, then he's at an immediate disadvantage.

It's at times like this, where he wishes he took an interest in personal combat. He could hold a sword, participate in swordplay - fencing, if anything, but he's never been fond of it. He's only good with his hands. Dirty boxing. Dammit. He needs Lex - he's a proper swordsman. Phillida's 'I told you so' rings heavily in his ears.

Shit... _Phillida_.

Masser and Secunda light the area in a dull silver light, light enough that he can see little more than four hundred meters before him, enough to make out shapes. Crude ones, but shapes.

Aurelius inhales. The feeling did not subside.

In fact, it increased by about tenfold.

Snapping around, Aurelius catches the arm before it can properly swing. His bracer connects heavily against a thick set of leather padding and his hand darts out, gripping hold of the attacker's hand. He jerks backwards, letting go before he can get dragged towards whoever this was and there is a flash of pale skin as Aurelius ends up ripping the other's glove off in his haste.

He considers shouting when he looks up; medium sized, medium build - average height, not much taller than Aurelius, but tall enough to suggest that this is a fully grown man he's dealing with here. He's armed. In a dark uniform.

And they're alone.

Damn it all.

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**


	7. P 1 - C V : Among Other Things

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

* * *

|** PART ONE** |  
**CHAPTER V**

AMONG OTHER THINGS

"Well, wonderful night to be out, don't you think?" he says, simply, rapidly searching for some form of exit while also keeping an eye on the attacker's gait. The dark leathers the man wore made it harder to detect movement in such low light, but by this point, Aurelius was straining enough that most of the small details he needed were evident. It's the little things that are the most important and in his case, it's the joints, rather than the whole figure. Their posture was distinctly correct; well-practiced, a series of fluid movements that practically reeked of years of swordsmanship.

That was Aurelius' first observation, slowly inching backwards to avoid getting rushed.

The second was more of a guess. That armour held enchantments; he can see the faint glimmer from here, but the more important is what's _on_ the gloves. Or glove, in his case. They're stronger - layers upon layers of protection, he assumes, since it's the logical move to take. The only reason one would really need strong enchantments on gloves is to protect themselves from spells. Since it's hardly your hands one goes for when on an offensive, Aurelius also highly suspects that it's for protection against your _own_ spells rather than anybody else's. Against a fizzle, or a backlash. Or whatever the stupid term is called.

Swordsman. Magic user. Mages need their hands - therefore, do not tend to fight with them, lest they get damaged. That and the whole practice requires more time and effort than not; those who excel in the magical arts do not tend to in much else. Most, not all. General observation. Arcane University students make poor sparring partners, willing or otherwise, and Aurelius knows this from experience.

But Aurelius is also sure enough in his ability that if he can take Phillida on bare handed and get a fair amount of damage in before going down, he can take this one on. Perhaps not all the way, but if he can do some damage, chances are he can get away.

It's just a matter of how and when, rather than if. The bastard is still holding the shortsword and Aurelius isn't _that_ confident just to go rushing in now.

But... perhaps. He's never tried it practically - but in theory...

He's not very good when it comes to casting spells as a general rule, but if Aurelius is one thing, it's determined and a good few years studying the topic of Remote Manipulation has given him a good enough - no pun intended here - _grip _of the spell itself. It's a risk; it could go wrong and he'd be in a heap of trouble, but he has to give it a go.

"Indeed." the attacker moves forwards ever so slightly and Aurelius backtracks again, making sure his shoddy footwork is a bit more noticeable than usual. They ended up circling and it's at this point that it hits; he's not the only one waiting. The realisation that there was another assassin, somewhere, hits and he glances around subtly. He's not just facing off one man here, but likely two. Perhaps more. He's none too sure.

He better move this on. There's no way on this Nirn that he'd be able to fight off two of the fetchers.

Because they're focusing on the hand that is holding the shortsword, they don't expect him to use his other hand for anything. His stance isn't great, they can probably tell he's not a well versed swordsman, but since he's standing with his right hand behind his back, he can cast the spell without giving too much away. He concentrates as he felt the tug of power enter, then shake due to the lack of control, but rather than attempt to pull it off, Aurelius waited, moving their attention away from his right by shifting his left. The blade wavers and Aurelius winces - it wasn't supposed to be _that_ obvious. For most foes, a sign of an under-skilled opponent might be enough, for this attacker, it was only a sign that their victory was sure. They lunged at him, completely and Aurelius only just managed to scramble out of the way.

Now or never, he released the spell and brought his hand forwards, sensing the not quite natural weight once he gets a solid definite feel, and then, he 'grabs'.

And it worked.

In theory.

He managed to pry the blade free from the attacker's grip, for one, but the blade didn't exactly go far - it fell between them and Aurelius, along with an impressive stream of proficiencies, had to give it a solid kick with the heel of his boot to get it well out of arm's reach. It's sent clattering down into the depths of the docks beside them, vanishing in the darkness, but before Aurelius can actually register that it worked, the downside has hit him just as quickly. The bigger man rushes him, paces set wide and fierce.

Aurelius freaks, perhaps not outwardly, but inwardly, he defiantly freaks. Stepping aside, he reacts instinctively and tosses his shortsword also, bringing his fists up to each side of his face, elbows against his sides, tucking his chin downwards and looking forwards, pacing to put more space between them again.

It's a stupid, stupid move, but when it comes to using his fists, well...

He waits for them to get closer before throwing his entire bodyweight behind a curled fist. He hits the attacker hard, with enough force that their head snaps around, blood spraying from their lips. It's a gruesome, majestic picture. The man's upper lip explodes with a burst of crimson. Aurelius does not give him time to realise his error. Instead, as soon as the man howls and turns his face away, he just grabs their head with his own two hands, fingers grasping the hood of their cloak. Then, with strength, he brought his kneecap upwards against the vague region of their nose. That too shatters. Breaks. Aurelius is gifted with the noise of wet snapping and he smiles. Drawing backwards a few steps, he brings both of his hands back and slams his palms into each side of the assassin's face.

Perhaps, if he got the message, he'd leave. But Aurelius knew, inwardly, that such would never happen. If Phillida had taught him anything, it was that this was the business of cutthroats. The power to kill and destroy was really one of the only ones that mattered, because if you could not kill, then you are subject to those who can and then nothing and no one will ever save you.

Aurelius gives the assassin a sidelong look. Measuring.

He was a lot of things, but for all of his faults, defenceless isn't one of them.

The attacker was clearly injured, but not incapacitated - with a good strong uppercut, he slams Aurelius in the gut, once, twice, thrice and by that point the investigator has to let go. He can't breathe. It was then, when he looked upwards, that he saw that the man's hood had come down in the struggle.

About a year ago, there was this fellow named Askel - big guy, bigger brain, he was one of those Nords that didn't fit the stereotypical genre of his kind - who had suffered a stroke. It was only a small one, but he was getting on in years, and, afterwards, he told Aurelius one afternoon that it was possible for such events to happen in an instant, it was no longer than the time it took to speak a word; it would happen and it would be nothing more than the sensation of having weathered a headache. But while the cadenza of sound Aurelius heard was debilitating roar and sent him staggering backwards, he did not lose an instant of consciousness. And he realised just as quickly. Something flipped in his stomach, but he gripped one of the nearby stacked crates to keep himself steady, bending nearly double, trying to measure his breathing and muster enough air to fight the gathering of pitchy dots that licked in the space in front of eyes.

He didn't recognise the man, but something was there. A flicker of identification. It doesn't make sense and Aurelius inhaled heavily despite his aching ribs. How much time had passed? A minute? Ten? He still couldn't stand upright.

The attacker adjusted his stance again, wobbly and tentative, but came at Aurelius with frustrated rage. When he swept, Aurelius didn't slide away in time and he took the investigator down smoothly.

He hit the floor with a grunt, and with the force, his brain seemed to slam into gear. He did not allow the assassin to pin him. He sent his legs out suddenly, keeping them from grabbing hold properly before scrambling to his knees. But, he didn't manage to get out of leg's reach.

He let out a pained cry as the man's foot slammed into his lower back. It wasn't a very hard kick - it would have been, if it had hit him correctly. The Attacker' eyes were streaming under his hood, tears and blood covering the majority of their nose and cheekbones, and he'd missed because he couldn't see clearly. Grasping for Aurelius, the attacker managed to get a good, solid grip on the fabric of his cloak, and jerked him upwards, putting him off balance and spinning him around.

Aurelius only just managed a single pained grunt as the man's leathered fist struck his eye and cheek. The hard punch had blurred the investigator's vision as well, but only for an instant, jerking his head to the side and making him staggering back. He stops himself just before he reaches the edge, arms flailing and knees buckling. Thankfully, the assassin hadn't perused instantly - he was wiping his face with his gloved hand.

Although he felt that his body might collapse front the pain, Aurelius clenched his teeth and willed himself to act. The unfocused look in the attacker's eyes and the way he shifted unsteadily let Aurelius know that he'd punched the tenacious older male into a stupor. That might have been why the man didn't just simply grabbed Aurelius' blade, which lay dejectedly in a pile of leaves over towards their right, and end it here and now. Aurelius was proving too much trouble to simply just fight on relatively fair ground.

He had to keep it that way. Had to keep the man's attention on Aurelius and nothing else. The second someone picks it up, it's over.

Aurelius clearly hadn't fully recovered from the beating he'd taken, but he was ready to keep fighting nonetheless, and despite his lacking mobility, he darted forwards with stiff legs and decided on strategic exploitation, tagging the man's right shoulder with a straight left, then quickly hopping back, ignoring the pain in his lower middle. 1-2-3-4; easy peasy, Jab-Cross-Hook-Cross. Forget starting light. If this man did not know basic hand-to-hand, then that was his own damn fault. Encouraged, Aurelius continued to harass the man with hit-and-run strikes. Again and again, racking up hits on the attack's arms and shoulders, making them heavy and useless with the pain, while scooting beyond his reach if the assassin ever did every try to retaliate. The punches weren't terribly damaging, but Aurelius didn't _want_ to damage - he wanted them to hurt and tax the larger man.

He wanted a reaction. A response.

Aurelius sank three more shots into the man's deltoids.

"Come on!"

The bruised attacker finally lost his cool. When Aurelius rushed in to attack, the man stepped forward as well. The older hurled a frustration-fuelled bomb at his approaching rival.

Aurelius saw this, however. While his body ached, limbs shaking and becoming harder to manoeuvre, his mind was sharp. He saw the change of footing. The flare of the nostrils as they went in. The faint arc of the elbow. In one graceful, fluid motion Aurelius dipped and moved in a clockwise manner. This allowed him to duck under the man's meteoric right and then immediately pop back up on the outside of his swing, in a prime position to strike.

It went quickly after that. Staggering after the flailing attacker, Aurelius slammed both his hands on a pair of wooden crates and with the powerful lunge of broadening shoulders, stretching bones and hardening flesh, he threw most of his bodyweight upwards, kicking his legs up and jamming his boots into the small of the attacker's back, connecting hard and sure. The attacker didn't make a noise. He just sort of panicked for a few seconds as he was shoved against the outer wall and into the dark water beyond. There was a bit of splashing going on, but Aurelius didn't wait to see if he'd reach the surface - he's retreating, gasping in surprise and pain.

He doesn't dwell on it. Grabbing his sword, he half stumbles, half jogs back up the stairs that lead to the main avenue and, as an afterthought, collects the discarded glove that the attacker dropped as he did so. He wouldn't take the normal route. Forget Lex - if he hadn't shown up during the fight, he wouldn't be showing up now. He had to get to Phillida.

Once he gets into the Prison District, Aurelius stops at the nearest corner and stops to a tentative halt. He had put all he had into knocking that fellow down. As soon as he saw the door to the 'Offices, he pitched forwards, panting and placing both of his mangled hands on his knees to steady himself as he fought off the pain and nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Pangs of immense pain rocketed up his spine with every movement, but he didn't sit down. He wouldn't get back up again if he dared, that much he's fairly certain.

Coming down from his fighting high, Aurelius unclenched his fists and looked down at the damage. There was a fair amount of blood, but he's not sure how much of it was actually his. He felt tired. He felt sore. That much he defiantly knew. His shoulders were bending with weariness and he knew, that if he looked at his reflection, his eyes would be dark from a lack of sleep, the bruises on his face developing stark against his skin. The blood clotting and crusting. It was strange, he thought, that the _others_, they looked at him and saw a boy. It didn't matter if he was standing in the uniform of an officer. He was a boy. He was seventeen. It didn't matter if he was brilliant. He was young.

And he'd just bested a pissing Brotherhood assassin. Beat him down.

No. He thought. He wasn't a boy. Young, physically, yes, but Aurelius had been through enough and had worked splendidly up since then, and, he had survived that little encounter. For now, he had won. For now. The Commander was wrong - those people, wrong. There was no youth in that.

With that depressing moment of contemplation, Aurelius struggled his way up towards the third floor of the building. The stairs were the real kicker. It felt like an era the way he had to climb them before he got towards Phillida's office door, but he continues with the same set pace, teeth gritting together every moment or so. One of the Watchmen follows him for a good part of the trip, concerned, but he leaves again when it becomes evident that Aurelius would make it. They see the door to Phillida's office and they turn back, either to give them privacy or to get the Oblivion away before they get called upon.

Aurelius doesn't blame 'em, honestly.

He doesn't knock when he enters and with the interruption, Phillida, half dressed in his uniform with the late hour, jumps about a foot in the air off of his seat with the surprise. Aurelius was too battered to appreciate it.

Scowling, the older Watchman glares upwards, but the expression was short lived. As soon as he saw Aurelius' face, he got up from his chair. "What in the name of Stendarr happened to you?" he half barked. "You look like crap!"

Despite himself, Aurelius paused. This was probably the first time someone had ever been concerned about his health. He wasn't really sure how to respond.

"Are you blind? I'm fucking gorgeous." Aurelius grunted, but then waved his hands and scowled. "Forget that. Forget it. We need to talk."

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

* * *

Three hours later, everything still hurt.

Stray beams of moonlight manage to creep through the window panes as the clouds are blown away, and they land on the spines of his books. Not the parchment-backed mass produced versions that tend to be used by institutions such as the City Watch, but real ones with hardbacks. He'd explained to Phillida just after he'd joined that there was something infinitely more real about reading out of a book. Not all of them had to do with his work, either. He had the classics too, most of them varying around the topics of the obscure. Townway, Jarth, Sul, Camilonwe of Alinor... If it was a subject that interested him, he made sure to get a copy. He was an avid reader.

Tossing his copy of Liminal Bridges down against his desk, Aurelius pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled heavily. He really wasn't in the mood for the_ Theory and Praxis of Travelling between Mundus and Oblivion_, but he was too sore to do anything else and too pent up to sleep. He passed his hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes before propping his chin upon his curled fist, eyeing the discarded glove from where he sat.

Phillida had given it a look before had left, but the Captain hadn't taken it with him, so for now it sat there looking lonely and obscure on the mountain of parchments and documents. It was late, and the evidence was safe enough as it was in here - an investigation had yet to be set up. Phillida had wanted to speak to the Commander further before they did anything.

A Watchman, investigator or otherwise, being attacked is not a small issue. It's a pretty serious crime. The fact that they're Brotherhood only makes it worse. This is going to be a pretty big affair.

And it's not something Aurelius looks forward to with any sort of pleasure. Commander Atos Jarn was one of the few people he actively hated, and he's pretty sure that such a sentiment is returned, by the end of the year, the bastard will retire and give them all some peace, but having to explain himself to the fat bastard of all people made the wait feel worse. _Old enough to walk around at night my ass_, thought Aurelius as he scowled at the glove a little more heavily. _How about incapacitating a Dark Brotherhood assassin, Jarn? How about that, you pompous git? _The look of surprise on his face when Aurelius had explained what had happened, what he had done (Minus the incident with Puny, Aurelius wasn't stupid to assume that Jarn would overlook that kind of thing) was something, at least. Not much. But it was nice to see him taken down a peg or two.

Leaning forwards with a grimace, Aurelius picked it up and examined it again. It was black, made of soft leather that did not reflect much light. He'd already noticed that it wasn't the kind of dark, well dyed black that people used for fashion purposes, but the kind of dark that was practically pitch. Worked well for disguise. Nor was this armoured for combat, which was interesting.

Aurelius' brow furrows. Phillida had already told him it was one of a pair of horse riding gloves. The leather under the fingers was slightly more padded to avoid damage from the reins. Aurelius runs his index finger over the glove's own, pondering on that thought. So he was a rider then, on horseback. He'd check the local stables, but he's pretty sure that a bloody assassin wouldn't sign in. Still. It was worth a look, just in case.

The second observation takes him a little longer. The stitching, he realises, is different than that of normal. Plenty more thread. With a frown, he turns the glove inside out to examine it more closely. He's not too sure where he's seen that before.

Then it hits him.

Grabbing his cloak, Aurelius realises that it's the same. Triple stitched to ensure that nothing comes undone - plenty of work to take plenty of abuse. An earmark of fine tailorship. He knows the two aren't in any way connected - Aurelius had paid for his cloak with the first few months of earnings himself, and the man who made it was a local who didn't make riding clothes.

But the expense... this is clearly expensive gear.

He's not entirely sure, but he knows that if you want riding gear that works, you ought to go to a stable. Some towns have stores specifically for it, some don't, but the logical place to go was a stable, he figures. Bruma, Leyawiin and Bravil weren't known for breeding quality horses - they're stables that are more run down compared to the others... so the gloves couldn't have come from there, especially if they were this expensive. Aurelius examines it again. Also, the Imperial City doesn't smith gear like that themselves. They don't even sell horses. Aurelius wasn't a very good rider, he didn't even _like_ horses, but he knows a fair few breeds. Knows a Legionnaires' when he sees one, anyway. Finding a criminal's horse is a good indication as to where they have come from, generally, so it is a good place to start.

So if he can find out where the glove came from, at least...

It isn't much - it probably wouldn't lead to anything, but it was worth a shot. Gloves like these are unique. The one who made it, if found, could probably give them a description of the fellow they are looking for.

His hand skims over something odd, and he brings his fingers away to find something indented into the leather on the inner wrist. Frowning, Aurelius brings the candle over further to get a better look. It was worn, likely from use, but it was there.

_TS._

A name? He's not sure.

Lifting himself out painfully from his seat, Aurelius half staggers towards the door and opens it, whistling towards the guard who stood a few feet away down the hallway.

"I need a list of city stables and the names of the proprietors."

The guard frowns. "I'm not really..."

Aurelius leans forwards, his tone lower, frustrated and dropping his usual well-spoken manner to that of his inherit Kvatch drawl. He's too stressed, and bloody sore, to keep it up. "Do this," he stresses. "And you've gone helped me nab' a Dark Brotherhood agent, neh?"

He didn't have to say much after that. The Brotherhood? Who doesn't want to take out the Brotherhood? Many of the men here are Phillida's, they've all come up with that very same method of thinking. Aurelius was one of them, in a way; there was a certain... culture. Walking in again, Aurelius stands before the mirror over the washstand and frowns at his reflection. For some reason, something keeps on nagging at him. He doesn't know what it is. He knows there is something there. He knows when to trust his instincts, it's practically in his blood.

Aurelius freezes up with that thought. Then he blinks. Once. Twice. Checking and double-checking.

Son of a bitch.

Suddenly, Aurelius' face turns thunderous, and he seizes the nearby chair and swings it bodily into his desk, sending the majority of its contents falling against the floor with an unsubtle crash. But he doesn't stop there; within seconds his left hand as curled into a hard fist and he's slammed it into the mirror before him.

Rearing forwards, bringing his face closer to the shattered reflection, the condensation from the enraged puffs of air misting the bottom half. A single teardrop of blood oozes around his palm and then drips slowly down his forearm, along his elbow and then onto the floor. He doesn't bring it away, but rather leans against it heavily, head lowered and breathing hard.

In truth he didn't know, not really, only that his suspicions of what it could be was too powerful to ignore.

All he was sure of was that he was really, really eager to see this through. Most investigations took time and effort, precise planning and a lot of forethought - Not this time. Aurelius huffs, slowly, and sets his jaw. He's ready now. Get him the information he needs, and he'll end it. This has gone on for too long. Far too long.

The door opened in darkness. Aurelius listened. A shuffling booted step. Hesitance.

"Where?" he asks, and Phillida moves in. He doesn't say anything about the damage. Aurelius doesn't bother to thank him.

"Tovas Selvani at Black Waterside Stables. That's Cheydinhal. Excellent work, Aurelius. Brilliant."

Slowly, Aurelius brought his hand away. How kind of them. He thought. I wish, and they deliver.

"Get me a uniform. I need a uniform."

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

* * *

He finds him. After five days of drudging footman work, intense observation and complex investigation, Aurelius finds him.

Of course he fetching does.

He's sat in their office chair when they arrive, the clank of a trapdoor giving him all the warning he needs. His feet are on the desk, his shortsword too, and he's flicking through several thick pages, relatively intrigued and puffing on the end of a pipe he'd bought a few days ago. He can imagine how Phillida might react to this unassuming treasure trove; all the information an avid Dark Brotherhood hunter could ever want.

All things considered, they should have been more careful, more subtle, better informed. That, or Aurelius is far better at his job than he thought.

He laughs at that sentiment, biting on the end of his pipe to keep it set and the man on the other side of the room freezes. But the assassin doesn't attack. Aurelius looks upwards from the papers, marking his point along the lines of words and paragraphs of sentences so he doesn't lose his place and he tilts his head towards the left.

And to think that he first came to the Imperial City looking for this man. He doesn't know if the Gods are being particularly permitting, or if, perhaps, this is what he's been working on from the beginning, but it's bemusing all the same. An assassin, relatively high ranked judging by the paperwork, the dozens of contracts folded neatly into piles, all read by Aurelius, all committed decisively to memory.

"I think I got that from you." Aurelius states, calmly, frowning at the page and finishing of the paragraph so he doesn't have to keep hold of the parchment. With this other hand, he removes his pipe from his mouth and knocks it against the desk, before tossing that too. "Among... other things."

Then he looks up again, and Aurelius notes that he had been right. Yes, he had. Again. There are a number of things. The cleft chin, the pointed hairline, which is the exact shade of umber brown. The similar Imperial nodal structure. The left dominant hand. The jawline, of which Aurelius differs in slightly, because it hasn't finished growing into his adult shape. But then there is his mother, too. The exact same of fiery amber in the irises, her eyebrows and, of course, her freckles - but his are less pronounced, from living in the overcast Imperial City and frequently avoiding sunlight. Overall, the only real evidence of his patronage is the curve of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders. And of course, that resolute intelligence behind their eyes.

"Lucien Lachance." he says then, casually as he places the parchments down and waves his hand at them all. "I took the liberty of re-ordering those for you. In order of occurrence, because I'm cliche in the aspect of good order. Funny that. I didn't think that the Brotherhood even _had_ paperwork. Seems a little... official, almost. Authoritative- no, no no, that's wrong. Formal. It's too banal to be expected."

"And who are you?" the Imperial opposite asks, calmly.

"Your son." Aurelius replies, because it's the courteous thing to do, considering, then he stands.

There is a moment of silence as they size one another up and Aurelius' eyes travel from the face of Lachance to that of the man standing behind him. Aurelius hadn't heard him come in, but he knows that he's there, now.

Very slowly, he wraps his hand around the cold metal object lodged in his shoulder and draws it out, without wincing. It's a dart. He can feel it; knows its shape, the faint cool touch of metal and... whatever it was they'd tipped it with moving through his bloodstream. He's had far, far worse. The dart itself didn't go in too deep, and it wasn't aimed anywhere vital; the needle was only around a centimetre long. Really, Aurelius should get away with nothing but some sinew damage. Pretty mild, by the Brotherhood's standards, he thinks. Perhaps behind the masked expressions, they're almost as shocked as he is. Not by shooting him, of course, but by the... other thing.

So he walks around the desk so that it's a little easier for all of them. It's quiet. The sound of water drips somewhere in the semi-distance.

He inspects it in the low light, chuckling to himself, and he tosses it aside before walking over towards Lachance. Aurelius' facial expression was cadaver-like, not just sagged, but lacking its usual liveliness completely, as if he had left his spirit sat back in the seat behind the Speaker's desk. His eyelids drooped and there was a slight lolling to his head, drunk with fatigue. Even his feet barely skimmed the cobbles beneath him and altogether his limbs bore the appearance of being too heavy for him, like he was personally struggling against far more gravity than everyone else.

"You've got... until tomorrow afternoon before three senior investigators and Captain Adamus Phillida... before they... come into town and start searching." Aurelius says, drowsily and places one hand against the Speaker's chest to keep himself upright. "Do what you want, but remember..." their eyes meet, but despite the creeping blackout, Aurelius is grinning victoriously. "I've won this round. Me. _I_ did."

Aurelius is utterly wired until the time when he cannot fight it anymore, barely a few more minutes afterwards, and the sleep is as instantaneous as it is unwelcome. His head slumps at an awkward angle, and the last thing he thinks is, thankfully, if he's going to land on anything, it won't be the floor.

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**


	8. P 1 - C VI : Match

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

* * *

|** PART ONE** |  
**CHAPTER VI**

MATCH

It's the dull ache that actually brings him around, slowly but ever so firmly, the impressions of his belt digging into the bruises on his stomach, a faint cool draft brushing against his forehead, where the overgrown developing-curls of his Legionnaire's cut cling gleefully. He can't move his hands to brush them away. This he notices without actually noticing anything. It's all of these things, little small things that his semi-conscious mind grasps, acting as irrefutable evidence that he is, in fact, alive.

Aurelius Avis is alive.

Blinking unsteadily, the Investigator focuses on his boots and knees and attempts to frown. Then he tries to move his hands again. No go. They're stuck behind his back.

Crap. What was it he had been doing again...?

Tentatively, the dull lull of pain begins to inflate, seeping out from the abused section of his lower torso and then down every nerve tendon in his body. It settles for a few seconds. Aches. Grows, and then, rises to a crescendo.

And then erupts.

Swearing harshly under his breath, Aurelius reared his head backwards over the back of the chair he was sitting in- no, tied too, his arms pushing against the restraints as he convulses, jerking ridged in a bone-lock of sheer agony, his muscles clenching so hard he idly feels his bones creak and groan from the crushing pressure. If he wasn't grimacing with his teeth clenched tightly together, he may just have cried out. May have. It settles just as quickly, and Aurelius slowly begins to relax, loosening up and breathing out with slow careful exhales. It takes him a good few minutes, around ten to fifteen, before he can actually stop clenching his hands. When he does, the pain festering in his fingers and muscles begins to fade, if only slightly.

Aurelius blinks again and considers the ceiling above him.

He's alive. Still. Still alive.

It's this fact that the investigator mulls over, a thought that he takes in his hands - metaphorically, of course. He tugs again at the thought - and turns over to see how it could be, how it occurred. It is something he had not expected, in all truthfulness. It will take some getting used to.

He's not even sure how he even got here, wherever he happened to be. Cold brick walls of an intermediate sort, cobbled slab flooring, cool temperature, and _damp_. Aurelius struggles for a few seconds, trying to place everything. The last thing he can lucidly recall is the moment right before he lost consciousness, back in that sodding fort, but after... there was a drug, he knows. His head feels too heavy and stuffy with the unnatural drowsiness. Perhaps it was that, or the wounds he'd sustained a few days ago. Perhaps he doesn't even want to remember.

Huh.

Perhaps it's because he's hardly lucid that the details of before do not bother him as they should. Dead. He should be dead.

Brotherhood. Who survives hostilities with the Brotherhood? Phillida, sure, but that was _Phillida_. Then, Aurelius remembers the Waterfront. Then... however long ago it was, back in the fort. He survived. Which...

Well, which brings him back here, Aurelius supposes.

He listens intently; there isn't much to make out, aside from his own breathing and the scuff of his boot as he stretches his legs out. He still felt like crap, so he decides to sleep the after effects of the drug off. It didn't matter how many times Aurelius thought through it, or tried to resolve the problem in his head. The Brotherhood hadn't killed him, and he knew from experience that these people weren't the ones to pander around when it came to dispatching threats. They'd gone after Phillida thrice. They'd gone after him. Now at least, they wouldn't have left Aurelius alive if they hadn't wanted anything. Wouldn't have bothered to tie him up. So that meant that there was some other reason for _this_.

But did the old rules still apply? Aurelius hums under his breath drowsily and settles his head into a more comfortable position. Now that is a question he's not sure how to answer.

The second time he wakes up, he's still disorientated, but he's more aware of where he is and why, if not what to expect.

There is a man sat before him, near the table, reading a book. Gaunt, dark haired and, Aurelius notes when he turns towards him; pronounced cheekbones and fiery red eyes.

Aurelius stops mid-yawn and blinks in alarm.

Shit.

"Ah, you're awake. Good. Comfortable?"

Was that supposed to be a joke? Aurelius raises his eyebrows in response. Breton, this one. High Rock.

Oh, and a vampire. That was the immediate trait, Aurelius supposes.

"Not exactly." He replies, truthfully. A little honesty never hurt anyone when the circumstances titled in your favour. Well, he's not too sure that they _are_ in his favour, but Aurelius takes what he can get. Always. He can make this work.

After all, why else would he be here?

Aurelius smirks. Why indeed.

"No silent treatment?" The vampire asks, mildly surprised if the expression was any indication, but Aurelius suspects that it isn't genuine. It seemed feigned somehow; it was the same face Phillida pulled with he was being a patronizing twit. "Lucien seemed adamant that you would cause us a multitude of problems, bringing you here."

Aurelius snorts. "From experience, I can guess that _Lucien_ underestimates me more than I'd actually appreciate in person."

"Hm, perhaps." The vampire shifts into a more comfortable position, setting the book down gently. Aurelius wonders then what they want from him. Information? Most likely. After all, he's Phillida's pupil. The thought annoys him slightly. He's not sure why.

The vampire stills, looking at Aurelius oddly. He blinks once. "Interesting. You look like him, when you get flustered. Dare I say it's not a very good look. Doesn't suit you."

"Gee, thanks. You know exactly what to say to an insecure adolescent."

The vampire laughs shortly, and they fall into an uneasy silence. Both Aurelius and the vampire seem to be evaluating their options, gauging one another, Aurelius more than the vampire, honestly. The Investigator was not... uneducated on the topic of Porphyric Hemophilia and Sanguinare Vampiris, not entirely. He knew that a vampire, in any state, was a fairly powerful foe indeed. This one before him was also an old vampire, and Aurelius meant _old_, old vampire. Old enough to beat him single-handedly, in any case. Experience, superior strength...

Aurelius looked away. His odds against this once, on an offensive, were not too great. He'd have to play it cool.

The door opens, and two more men walk in. The first one Aurelius immediately recognises, the other one he doesn't particularly care for.

"Would you look at that," Aurelius mutters, more to himself than the vampire or the other two men. "I wish and you deliver. Cute."

Lachance draws to a halt, considering this statement, and the other man walks forwards. The Investigator doesn't have enough time to respond; he's slapped Aurelius' straight across the face before he can even as much as turn his head.

Aurelius has been slapped before, but never by a Dark Brotherhood assassin. It's an experience to say the least.

"Lovely to meet you too." He hisses, glaring up at the man and, when he gets nothing but a stare, glancing towards Lachance. The man is expressionless. But the Investigator can see the calculating gaze under that hood. He's having a think.

Okay, Aurelius thinks. I can deal with that.

When the next blow comes, Aurelius moves his face with it, lessening the impact. He's surprised that they are even bothering to take this route. It should have been made clear through the fight, and then, with the little showdown in the fort that Aurelius knows how to be quiet. That he knows how to hold in tears and hold back groans. That he knows how to swallow screams, how to relax his body so that the blows will hurt less. The man hits him with a closed fist, hard enough that the chair topples over. Aurelius hits head on the ground. The ringing in his ears and the throbbing of the back of his head distracts him from the pain in his nose, but the blood trickling down to his chin suggests that it's broken. Fetching fantastic. He's just bloody got himself healed.

And this suit _tailored_. He sighs at the concept of another shirt ruined. He needs to stop wearing white, all things considered. Perhaps he should just be smart and start wearing red. But then he pictures himself walking around like that and he winces. Hoo no. No, no _no_.

"_Mathieu_-" The vampire speaks up, but the other Breton cuts him off when he slams the toes of his boot straight against Aurelius' temple.

That, at least, was enough to subdue Aurelius completely.

The third time he wakes up, he has a killer headache.

And it hadn't been that long - probably only a few minutes, but Aurelius finds it interesting to note that having fallen on his back, the bonds holding his hands together have become looser. With some effort he could probably get out of them, but he doesn't know what he would have to do next. Three assassins who are all likely to be armed, and he doesn't know who else is in the general vicinity, or even where he is. Still, being unrestrained is better than being restrained.

Aurelius quietly, subtly twists his wrists, trying to get more room to work with, but aside from that he doesn't do anything else. Best to sit here and wait it out.

They're talking, the other men. Aurelius listens for a few seconds, but when that assassin who had struck him, the other Breton, proclaims that the Investigator will do nothing but mess with them, can't help but laugh.

"One of my defining talents." Aurelius says, and Mathieu hauls the chair back up, grunting with the effort. Aurelius regards Lachance casually. "Somehow I also get the inkling that it's another genetic trait; funny how that works, isn't it?"

Aurelius relaxes into the next hit and this time when his chair goes down, nobody picks him back up. Shit.

"This is clearly not going to work," the vampire speaks again, a frown evident in his tone.

"We have ways of making a man talk."

Sighing, loudly, Aurelius hums under his breath as he considers the wall he was facing, cheek pressed up against the floor, wiggling his toes in his boots.

"Talk is good, actually. I wouldn't mind a conversation. If only you'd have _asked_ before slapping me around."

"Oh?" This came from Lachance, and Aurelius froze slightly, for a few seconds, before replying.

"Why in Oblivion would I be here in the first place?"

There is a pause, one second, two, three and the vampire moves across the room to ease Aurelius' chair back onto four legs.

"I was going to tell you," He says, the vampire, looking towards Lachance and then, the other male. "But I see we are particularly enthusiastic today. Before you came rushing in here, taking swings and throwing punches, Aurelius and I had actually been getting along."

"Woah, _Aurelius_?" The Investigator snorts. "Somehow I don't think we're on first name basis, old man - I don't put out otherwise until at least a third or fourth outing. That and under Imperial Law, I'm actually underage. Consider that before making another move, neh?"

The vampire rolls his eyes at the sentiment. Then he reaches out, produces something and presses it up against Aurelius' face. It takes him a second to realise that, no, it's not another drug laced item, but instead just a damp washcloth. Despite his reservations about being touched, Aurelius allows it to happen. It's not like he can actually do anything to stop him, and damn, it's better than bleeding all over himself in any instance.

"Mathieu, leave us. If I require you're... assistance, we shall let you know."

The other man looks as if he's about to argue, but he checks himself and nods. "Of course, Speaker." He bows and leaves, giving Aurelius once last icy glare as he does so, shutting the door behind him.

"Somehow," Aurelius murmurs when the vampire takes the washcloth away. "I don't think I'm very good at making good first impressions."

"You think?"

"It's happened before. A few times, actually."

"Only a few?"

"Okay, perhaps more than a few, but taking a look Dadda over there, I don't think I exactly have a lot going for me, do I?" Aurelius jerks his head towards Lachance for emphasis, who flinches slightly, having been staring at Aurelius with a twisted, bizarre look on his face for the better part of his time here. "Feel free to be offended, by the way. I meant that with all the malice I can possibly manage, bear in mind that I'm suffering through the side-effects of sedation and, thanks to that fetcher, a possible concussion."

Lachance folds his arms into his cloak and frowns, if only slightly.

"You are certain that you are... mine?"

"No. I walk around with your fuck-off nodal structure for shits and giggles."

"That settles it." The vampire deadpans. "He's defiantly your son."

As if to confirm the statement, both Aurelius and Lachance shared an identical look of pure, mute horror.

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

* * *

It took them a good number of days before his new-found captors allowed him to exert himself.

Perhaps, if Aurelius had been more analytical, he might have managed to calculate the exact number of days he had been here since he and Lachance's tentative stalemate on behalf of their apparent shared genetics (terrible excuse, but Aurelius still isn't sure why the man still hasn't dealt with him yet, so he is lacking another excuse); but when unable to use his pocket watch, he had to judge the time of day by the sky and thus, being underground thought, the method did not work and he was ultimately for the most part clueless.

This distressed him on a number of levels, to say the least.

When he did finally manage to get his hands on his own gear, it was during one of his bouts of lesser lucidness, and it was probably due to the fact that he was sending the rest of them insane with his own insanity, rather than any form of politeness.

To explain:

When Aurelius was little there was this duck, just an ordinary duck, the awkward little fat ones with green and white feathers. One of their city's older residents, Dalingridge, farmed them. The duck's name was Sam and Sam would eat anything you happened to hand him, wherever it was a piece of meat, a whole pear, or the severed arms of some little girl's doll. Thing was, Dalingridge said his stomach was made of iron - practically impenetrable to anything he ate. This, naturally, interested him. An iron duck? That was fascinating.

So in order to test this theory, Aurelius had fed him a lit firecracker.

Not the toy ones the children used during festivals either. No, the bigger ones that mages use to chase away vermin.

Seconds later, he'd stood back and watched it explode into various chunks of red goo and about a million feathers. If he can remember the event properly, he thinks that a few of the bits had landed on his shoes – so did a lot of the goo. Dalingridge never really did anything about it because he was only five and, really, it was just a duck and would have probably been killed eventually anyway. He'd got a hiding from his mother, and he's pretty sure that Phillida has been trying to keep him well away from the Imperial City's pet population ever since he had admitted the act.

Now, however, tromping up and down the expanse of the sanctuary at what he guesses is during the height of the afternoon, Aurelius wished he hadn't fed Sam that firecracker, because it could very well have meant that he might have had at least one firecracker left to entertain him right now.

"I'm sure you would have used it to kill some other unsuspecting creature." Vicente says mildly from behind his table once Aurelius has finished his sad lament with the accompanying swish of a page being turned.

The Investigator stops in his tracks, considers that for a second and then sighs.

"Probably."

Still, it's a disappointing predicament.

Boredom was usually easily quashed by the responsibilities back in the Imperial City, but here, things were very different. The only thing that was even remotely required was his criminology expertise, and three idle observations about previously failed contracts, a conversation about the practicalities of disguise and having pointed them in the direction of various new volumes on modern law structure, there was nothing else that Aurelius could do and he was left to his own devices as a direct result. By this point, having muttered the entirety of Ahzirr Traajijazeri by heart under his breath, having cleaned and oiled his boots twice, and having played three games of chess with Telaendril, whom had possessively proclaimed Aurelius to be a far cuter, condensed version of their dear Speaker himself, the Investigator was starting to slip into a bout of hysteria, fists bunched and shoved into his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. The reminder of the term 'fidgeting' actually makes his dominant hand twitch and he grimaces as he turns on the back of his heels. Hands. He needs something to do with his _hands_.

This had always been the case. Aurelius was, for the most part, soft spoken and calm as a rule of immediate appearance, but his motion was constant. From the moment he woke up until he crashed down at night. Even when he was sitting down or working, he had a tendency to swing his legs or tap his feet. Phillida had always wondered if he'd needed anything- some form of concoction, sedatives, more water. He didn't, Aurelius knew he didn't, it's just that he's always displayed a surplus of energy.

"He's like a half-grown pup." He recalls his mother saying at one point, when he was around ten or so. "He'll run and run and run and then he'll just fall down and sleep, whether he is."

Lately, Aurelius knew there had been no evidence of this, of course. His sleep was not like that of an eager, healthy hound. Not anymore.

But it left him like this regardless. Pent up and pacing with no outlet to lose himself into.

Vicente gives him particularly frustrated look.

Having crossed the room at least thirty-six times in the last twenty minutes, Aurelius shoots the vampire an apathetic glance and raises a hand. "Don't say it." He says, grimly. "Don't _say_ it."

"I take it back," Vicente mutters as he sets the book down and rubs the bridge of his nose. "You are objectively worse than Lucien was at your age."

Aurelius grunted, stopped in his tracks and folded his arms, tapped his foot for a few seconds and then turned around, his hands sliding back into his pockets.

"Here." The vampire extended his hand towards the as-of-recently reset chessboard and Aurelius sighs heavily, sitting down before him and scowling. He's at white at least.

There is a moment, tense, where they size one another up again. He can see the vampire wondering, if this comes back to what he's likely heard. About the calculative little Investigator Lucien had warned him about. Wits verses experience, then, Aurelius hopes; he's been playing Phillida for the better part of his time. It was refreshing to have new opponents. He moves his first pawn.

"Excuse the blunt nature of my question," Aurelius mutters. "But why bother keeping me alive for as long as you have?"

Vicente glances at him. "Pardon?"

"It's been keeping me awake for the better part of the last few days. You need me, clearly, otherwise I wouldn't be here, sat before you now, beloved little spawn of Lachance or no." Aurelius sucks in a slow, uneven breath, watching as the vampire moves his last third up two squares. Aurelius responds immediately by jumping a knight. Already, he thinks he knows where this game is going. "Why I can only guess, but the waiting... as much as I like to hone my deductive skills, I'd actually prefer to be told point blank by this point."

"We are waiting for the Listener."

"The _what_?"

"The Listener." Vicente looks at him, simply, and it's only when they blood the board - pawn to pawn - that he speaks up again. "Why did you even bother to track down the Speaker?"

"Lucien?" Aurelius doesn't know what to say now. He's not really certain, but he does know that he doesn't want to tell this man, here, now. That's for sure. This is something he wouldn't even tell Phillida, let alone someone who would no sooner kill him if desired. Why did he track down Lucien? Well, the crime element of it, yes - he was a criminal in need of apprehending, blah blah, but Aurelius knows that there was more to it than that.

He just needed to look the man in the face. He needed to _know._

And now that he does? Aurelius isn't sure if he even got what he wanted. Instead of finding some clarity into his back-history, he's been thrust into a hell of an identity crisis. He's not sure what to think anymore.

"Orders are orders." Aurelius lies, blatantly, and Vicente frowns as the younger man takes a pawn with his knight.

"You work with Phillida?"

"I do."

"As a... student?"

"More like an inevitable replacement." Aurelius mutters. "It should be obvious to you now, that the Imperial Watch's official hierarchy is in a bit of a state." It's clear that the vampire doesn't know what Aurelius is speaking about, so he elaborates, leaning back on his elbows. "I've been in the Watch for a few years now. It's easy when you know the signs. Phillida is one of the few men in the upper echelon that _really_ knows what he is doing. He is a man who believes in the gradual progress of justice, an admirable goal, honestly, not too sudden and not to expectant. He knows that in order to proceed, he needs to not only better himself, but the men who will follow on after him." Folding one leg over the other, Aurelius lets his hand brush over the developing stubble along his upper lip. It makes him frown. "He stood on the shoulders of great guardsman, and now, he's got someone standing on his. I mean, sometimes he generally hates my guts, but... he tries, to make me better, teach me things, pushes - constantly, pushes. Some of the guards are good, but..." _I'm pretty certain that I can be better_. He pauses at that, cupping his chin in a palm and letting his fingers cover his mouth for a few seconds. Then, grunting, he waves it. "It's not a profession, y'know? How many assassins do you know who join the Brotherhood simply because of the coin involved?"

"Not many, I have say." Vicente replies, then, he smiles. "Lucien became an assassin after he murdered his mother."

"Funny. I became an investigator after he murdered _my_ mother." Aurelius snorts, but his expression changes and he shakes his head soon afterwards. "I was joking. That isn't true."

If Vicente wanted to ask, he didn't. Instead, he changed the subject. "I don't think you came after Lucien just to arrest or execute him."

"You're right on that account." Aurelius admits, watching Vicente push another pawn further along the board. "Should I be worried?"

"About what? Us killing you?"

"I'm not worried about that, like I said, give it a few more days and you'll have more problems with the City Watch then you'd strictly like. I die, things become very... uncomfortable." There is an edge to Aurelius' tone, a reckless cynicism to it. Vicente presses his mouth into a thin line. "I think, considering, we can help one another out."

"Oh?"

"But somehow, I think this is a conversation for the, what was it again, Listener?"

He advances his second knight. A black queen moves further along. Aurelius breaths in.

But it's Vicente that drawls, "You are playing a very dangerous game, boy."

Probably, Aurelius thinks. But he allows himself to smile soon afterwards. "I was playing a dangerous game the moment, I understand, that I walked in to find Dren. You no doubt that forced my hand."

Aurelius advanced a second knight up, almost to the black ranks of pieces, to threaten the vampire's Queen. Vicente moves it back a square.

"But there _is_ something that you need to understand."

Aurelius says this as he moves a Bishop forwards. A black knight jumps along, in retaliation, and the Investigator moves his other bishop with a deft hand movement, his nod slow and neat. They play the rest of the match in silence, quick and brutal and in the end Aurelius ends up winning, with a Queen sacrifice; he sweeps all of the vampire's pawns from the board but all for his king and queen.

The Investigator smiles, then shakes his head.

"This is a game I never often lose."

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**


	9. P 1 - C VII : A Deal Between Devils

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

* * *

|** PART ONE** |  
**CHAPTER VII**

A DEAL BETWEEN DEVILS

Aurelius does end up finding something to do with himself, at any rate.

_WHAM_.

The battered punching bag took another swing, swaying widely with the momentum. The noise echoes around the small, cramped but comfortable nonetheless training room he had been shown to the minute it became obvious that he wasn't going anywhere, and, with a sudden growl and a harsh exhale, he hits it even harder.

He's not pleased with that concept.

Hitting things, or people, has always helped clear Aurelius' mind, but this morning it was doing nothing. It leaves him feeling raw. Wound up.

So he starts hitting it even harder.

There's no rhythm to his violence, all of his punches are rushed and uneven. The sounds that amplify off the surface of the punching bag are as just as unsteady. Whack, thunk, hesitate, whu-thunk, smack, bangbangbang, hesitate, slam. It makes his head ring in a manner that is not entirely dissimilar to the ringing in your ears when you are fresh out of a fight. It's a feeling he knows all too well and as he tires himself to an eventual standstill, he gasps out harshly, faint images, memories, clinging to the edges of his vision.

Beyond, sat on a table out of his reach, Telaendril sits reading a book of some sort.

Aurelius got on well with the High Elf, partly because Aurelius did have, in a sense, some vague respect for his elders and he had been as polite as possible to her since they first met, and, partly because they both admire the power of intellect and could hold a fairly complex conversation that lasted more than just a few minutes. Not in any particular field, per say, but just everything general. She doesn't say anything as he continues his onslaught.

On one hand, Aurelius shouldn't be playing his hand like this, since they already know most of his original strengths, but he guesses, judging by his performance at the moment, it doesn't look like he's particularly well trained. But, he is, in some sense; he's just too wound up to be doing anything properly.

And unlike many over pursuits, there _is_ a reason for his developing aptitude in physical bare-knuckled fighting.

Aurelius, he has come to finally admit, is not in any way physically imposing. He is very small in stature. Even before meeting Lachance and seeing the man in the flesh, Aurelius had the suspicion that he's not going to be getting much taller, or much broader. Looking at the Speaker, now it's almost certain that he'll be stunted for life. Ordinarily, this wouldn't be a problem; but Aurelius is, to some extent, an Imperial Officer. He is expected to be able to adequately defend both himself and others at any given moment, to be able to defeat most foes in close to all forms of common combat. Aurelius can swing a sword, and he's not horrible with a bow, but neither of those cut much ice when most of the men down in Lex's cohort can send him flying with a single backhand, and most of those men are hardly brutes in their own right.

He reaches five foot seven in _boots_, for Stendarr's sake.

It never took Aurelius long to realise that if he wanted to have the upper hand in a scenario where quick thinking and moderate surprise wasn't his primary advantages, he'd need to bulk up, and fast. It's only now, as he's moving past adolescence and moving into adulthood, that it's starting to actually pay off. He's studied well up until now; it's just the weight gain he needs.

Which is proving... difficult. Aurelius doesn't know what the fuck is going on with his metabolism, but he can eat the same amount as a small horse, frequently, and still remain skinny as he used to be. He used to be quite chuffed about that, but now... well, he's unpleased.

Aurelius is real unpleased.

It's because he's occupied that he doesn't hear the door open, and it's because he's pent up that he doesn't stop giving the punching bag the evil eye. It's only when they clear their throat that he notices, and even then, he doesn't look away immediately.

"I'll be back for you later." He tells it, absently, turning around to face of one of his most prominent adversaries of current time.

The Listener, as it happens, is not a big man either, but he's dangerous - cold, through and through. Aurelius whips a nearby towel over his shoulder and wipes his face as he observes. Pale, dark-eyed, not entirely dissimilar to the bosses of gangs he's seen in the Waterfront district. Clad in expensive clothing, with two very mean looking folk on either side of him. Aurelius cracks his knuckles, and sits down in the chair a few feet away, shirtless, and slouching horribly. He grabs a bottle of brandy - and it isn't poisoned, he checked - and pours out two of them. Just to ensure he's not planning on something devious, he also downs the first one before refilling it.

"I have to say," Aurelius calls. "Bloody good drink this. I'm not very big when it comes to alcohol, but Vicente has got good taste. Comes with experience, I suspect."

The Listener sits down before him, the two men standing on either side.

"What should we do with you, hm?" He asks, his tone is thick with something Aurelius doesn't like, but he's dealt with meaner folk then this man, stared down psychopaths and murderers and hasn't flinched. In many ways, Aurelius is worse than this man here. But they are both smart enough to keep such things under wraps.

They are treating one another like equals, here. There's no degrading. No ordering. Two very capable people have come across one another. Both of them have interests, and things in needing of protecting.

"Somehow I think that is the reason why we are both sat here." Aurelius replies. "I guess we should start negotiations."

"Quite." The elf before him shifts in his seat, getting comfortable. "Tell me why we shouldn't kill you, here, now and save us the time and effort of going through whatever you may have planned? Explain to me why we should let a threat like you continue to breathe?"

"Oh I think that is quite obvious."

"Yes, but it also intrigues me." The Listener takes the drink, gives him a look as if considering, and takes a sip. He points at Aurelius with his glass. "You are a young, impressionable little lawman, you have everything going for you, in one of the most disgustingly moral career paths there is. Why would a man like you ever want to cut a deal with people like us?"

"Spare me the fucking lecture." Aurelius responds, curtly, taking a drink and letting one leg dangle off of the arm of his chair. "I'm not Phillida. I'm not Lex. I'm me, and I take Cyrodiil the way I find it. The rot is so ingrained that it's just part of the system now, and you know what, I accept that. I could try to be rid of the Dark Brotherhood, the Thieves Guild, but where would that get me? Aside from sitting in my office late at night with a killer headache and more problems than I can actively face at one time."

Aurelius puts the glass down and sighs, hard.

"Let me tell you. Phillida is an idealist, but he also, conveniently, has the ability to have a poke at you now and again - and it works, clearly, but you are still here, highly structured, operating just fine out of the Imperial City." Yes yes, butter them up. Aurelius would find it disgusting, what he is saying.

Because it's genuine. _That's_ the part that was the most stomach churning.

"You want to know why I won't take action against you?" Aurelius asks, throwing his hands up in the air. "The answer is simple. You're not on my to-do list." He gives the man before him a shit eating grin. "You are not my first concern." And it's true. It's some of the truest works he's ever spoken aloud. "You know what I have to deal with on a daily basis? The real threats to society. The stuff that clogs up ordinary lives and uproots progress." He starts counting off of his fingers. "Theft, Domestic violence, Aggravated Assault, Rape, Fraud and Racketeering, Drugs, Drugs Smuggling, Smuggling in general, Murder, Disorderly Conduct, Criminal Trespass, Tax Avoidance, Harassment, Reckless Endangerment, False Reporting and, guess what, Loitering! I get called out for _loitering_."

He gives the Listener a pained look. Loitering! Seriously! An investigator of his calibre and he gets called out of loitering!

"All those things come pass my desk at some point, and it needs dealing with. Because we're a team of, say, around three thousand men covering a population well over fifty thousand, I simply don't have the time to be dealing with you too when I have a problem right there staring me in the face. Because these crimes? They're threatening, they're constant, so why should _I_ be concerned with _you_, when half of your successful contacts only, generally, effect the person you murder and whomever ordered it?"

He lets that question sink in for a few seconds here, taking another drink and savouring the taste as the seconds drag on.

"I might be a fucking genius but I'm still one man. I'm not stupid enough, and quite frankly, I don't _care_ enough, to want to take you down." And that, that is also true. He doesn't. Not really. "I know, I'm a bit of a fucking hypocrite sitting in this shitting uniform, or, well, half of it, but what you have to remember is," He sighs, looking towards the corner where Lachance had slipped in unnoticed a few seconds ago. He waves his hand at him, irritated. "I'm _that_ fucker's progeny. I guess uncontrollable homicide is indeed hereditary after all; because I'm not a nice guy, nor do I pretend to be, I've killed enough people to prove that. But. _But_, if I can work with you to limit the time I have to spend floundering around chasing shadows and running towards dead ends, fine. Great, actually. It means I can go back to sorting out problems I can actually solve." Aurelius considers that then, smirking and leaning up against a lazy fist. "Hell, you lot provide quite a bit of stimulus, actually. That shitstorm with Dren? That gave me a lot to think about. I've reconsidered five out of my seven methods of evaluation since that incident."

One minute, two... three... Aurelius looks at the Listener. The Listener looks at him. They're all standing knee deep in tension, the air feels thin, almost as if anything could happen.

The Listener opens his mouth to speak.

"So what do you propose then? If we consider you and your... claims?"

Aurelius leans backwards again, feeling more than just a little bit relieved.

"First things first, I don't want any of this-" He waves another hand. "I'm not a Brotherhood Agent, I am, no matter what we decide from now, no matter what we agree to, Junior Investigator Avis of the Imperial City Watch, and _nothing_ more. You don't put me on contracts, you don't order me to kill for you, and if you do, I will not participate."

He has to stress this now, before anything.

"But," He sticks a finger up before the elf opposite can but in. "What I will do, is... lend an occasional hand."

Well, that was a bit shitting pathetic. Aurelius internally smacks himself and powers on.

"Face it, you do your best to avoid contracts in the Imperial City; the City Watch is snapping at your heels the minute you step in past the gates; Phillida is one tip off away from disrupting your plans and killing your agents. And a lot of that comes down to people like me. We get paid to move quickly. We get paid to connect the dots. I hear about a sudden blow up between the houses, we keep an ear out; we hear about suspicious activity, we're watching. When it comes to the contracts in the Imperial City, we're aware that something might kick off already, it's just finding the target and finding _you_ that takes us a little longer. Sometimes, yeah, it's harder, some people are smart enough to keep their mouths shut... but you could say we are... well connected. We have our agents just like you have ours. Only difference is our incentives are gold, not threats of missing fingers and dead loved ones."

Aurelius, then, gives him a genuine little smile.

"In the case of Dren, you got it spot on; we _didn't_ know about Dren enough to nab him for anything other than rape, and he was one of the most obvious criminals out there."

And Aurelius will admit, that was a fucking brilliant show, that was. Horrible, sure, but by the gods - they'd beat him to an absolute punch that round.

Aurelius appreciates his more powerful of competitors.

He always has.

"You want to know what I'll give you?" He asks, folding his arms. "I'll give you an informant who is second in many respects to Phillida himself, who can create diversions in an investigation with nothing but a simple vocalized observation. A man can ensure that one guard is just a down the road a little bit longer so your assassin can pick that lock in time. A man who smuggle in people, supplies. A man who, unless he fucks up profoundly, can stay in business close to his entire career. You get a man who can mean the difference between a dead target and a dead assassin."

He lets that sink in. Just for a few seconds.

"And what do I want in return? Well, a bit of warning, before you go stabbing people would be nice - gives me time to do some damage control. Oh, and, if my head could remain happily attached to my shoulders, that would be nice too." He winches, clenching his teeth together. "Just a _little_ bit."

Aurelius gives Lachance a glance. The man is all shadows, aside from the pale slip of skin about his jaw. This is another problem, Aurelius knows. He'll get to that later, though.

"You do this, we do this, I go back to the Imperial City and in a week and a bit, I'll be set up. _Don't_ do this, you have a potential dead asset and half a troop of Imperial Legionnaires searching this city up and down for said potential asset's body." With that, Aurelius sits up and leans against the table, his palms flat against the surface, his tone dropping into something a lot more sincere. "I'm not a man you underestimate, do you understand?" Aurelius lowers his voice, letting it drift into a toneless, absent drawl. "I planned this, all of this, extensively. I got what I wanted. I'm just offering something in return for future investments." Then; "Surely you can't risk losing business in another major city, now, can you?"

The Listener looks at him hard, thinking this through.

On one hand, they could decline and kill him now.

On the other...

They need this. Aurelius needs this.

He just hopes that they're smart enough to see that.

"We'll be in touch... but if you _dare_ double cross us..."

There's a weight off of his chest. Aurelius breathes in deep, but he doesn't blink. Doesn't move his head. He just stares the Listener down.

Then, he pushes himself back, knees spread apart and a look of complete and utter disdain etching all over his uneven adolescent face.

"What the _fuck_ did I just say?" He demands, hurt. "I'm not an idiot." Then, folding his arms in a bit of a sulk, he grunts. "I'll be waiting, though, it's just a matter of... sorting out some lose ends. I'll need a body, someone who either bares resemblance to me or who can be... made, to bare some resemblance to me. A suit of that armour would be beneficial, though not necessary, and I need to place said body in a strategic position within the City by tonight at the least. It's just a matter of contacting Phillida, fending off his nanny-panic, and getting out of the city after that." Which is the reason Lachance was a bit of a problem. They look to similar to ever be seen together. If Aurelius doesn't cut all ties now, he can see it being a potential problem in the future. Not a big one, or even a likely one, but a problem nonetheless. "I told him I was looking for my father and the assassin of Dren. The body is that person. Once that is cleared up, it's, as they say, done and done. Happily crapping ever after."

"Your fath-"

"_Don't_ call him that... Lachance will be fine, uncompromised and as soon as he is comfortable in doing so, he can continue on as he pleases. I just need to make it look convincing."

"I'll see what the Brotherhood can offer, Master Avis."

"Good. Excellent." Aurelius stands, doesn't take the man's hand, but reconsiders that punching bag. "A pleasure doing business, then. If you don't mind, I need to work out some _issues_ before I get to work." He's almost got to it when he spins around, almost urgently, his brows furrowed as he remembers something. "Oh and speaking of work... I'll need a work space. Preferably big enough where I can... cut up bodies and study them in relative comfort, perhaps?"

Aurelius grins at the intrigued, almost amused expression on Lachance's face.

"You're an assassin, you understand."

They all drift on absently after that, and Aurelius grins to himself, triumphant. He knows this is only the beginning. That he'll have to be on guard for the rest of his life. That he's facing arrest or, actually, capital punishment, but...

He just openly cussed the Listener and lived.

"Everything going to plan, Aurelius?" Vicente asks a few moments later. Aurelius can't hear the bloke move, so he's very nearly jumps when the man speaks up.

"You could say that."

"Lucien informed me. We have someone out looking for suitable lookalikes."

Aurelius nods. This is... good. Better than he expected, actually. He might have just considered swallowing his fuckoff pride and actually shaking the man's hand if this-

"_Veeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_~!"

-hadn't interrupted their little moment and Aurelius hadn't been manhandled by a blur of blonde hair and sickeningly sweet enthusiasm. She looks him straight in the face, too close for comfort, shoves him away again and turns towards the, very suddenly amused, vampire.

"Oh my Sithis are you the new one! You are! You must be the new one, oh Vicente, he's just _adorable_." She shrieks and, Aurelius is willing to swear here, propels herself off of the vampire and sodding _lands_ on him.

Well, Aurelius has been molested before... a few times more than he cares to remember, actually, but fuck it all, this woman? She _violated_ him. While Vicente takes great pleasure in snickering and very slowly coming to his rescue the blonde, knife wielding loony tugs at his hears ears and pinches his cheeks and pokes at his chest and worst, before he can spit she's fondled his backside as well.

And Aurelius can't even smack her the fuck off cause she's a girl.

Aurelius doesn't hit girls when he can help it. Shoves, at the best. Punches when things get really bad, but then, in places where he won't do too much damage. It's _wrong_.

He's not sure where this moral obligation comes from, either. It's just there.

Aurelius opens his mouth. Shuts it. Looks towards Vicente and, quietly, breathes out.

"It's too late to take it all back, isn't it?"

Vicente doesn't even dignify him with an answer. Aurelius suspects he already knows it, anyway.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Fun fact, if you are interested; I do in fact model Aurelius after a very, very old-fashioned, and not to mention, borderline on permanently outraged, vaguely-looking version of Michael Angarano. If you'd like to get a reference, I highly consider looking up the actor's more recent pictures, probably from 2014 onwards. It should give you an idea of what Aurelius may be resembling in future segments. If you want to continue imaging him your own way, sure, just pretend this little bit here never existed.

Thanks for reading, as always.

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**


	10. P 1 - C VII : Two Hundred and Forty Six

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION

* * *

|** PART ONE** |  
**CHAPTER VIII**

TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY SIX

It takes the Cheydinhal Sanctuary little more than a few days, and in a sense for Aurelius also, to understand it at its base.

And even then, not completely.

To understand the relationship between both father and son, you have to understand the man as is what considered to be his core; for there was no easy way to describe the complex system that involved Lucien Lachance and Aurelius Avis.

Junior Investigator Aurelius Avis was, much like his biological father, a man of professional pursuits as well as scientific ones. He was naturally drawn to the world around him, and anything that piqued his profound intelligence was liable to entertain his focus for an amount of time, not sparingly; he didn't waste his intellect. It's the simple truth; Aurelius is intelligent, but it differs from Lucien's own special brand of smarts. Both men are observant, yes, and tactical in their endeavours, but Aurelius is capable, Vicente thinks, of thinking at a much faster pace. He was constantly thinking. Analysing.

Lucien isn't as... perceptive; at least, not all the time. Aurelius constantly got distracted with new things, took in every detail with deep rooted strictness. Lucien was able to limit it to when he wanted it, which made him a lot more personable than his son, to say the least. Aurelius found it hard to relate to people; he was hardwired mentally, it seemed, to deduce, not pander around in aimless conversation. He got impatient without a due cause.

While it was made clear that he cared little for others, this sense of constant aggression and dispassion is not natural. Vicente can see this. Aurelius Aris, _morally_, is not a bad man.

His methods are questionable and his approach is controversial. But this is a boy who, Vicente guesses, has not had it particularly easy. The same could be said for Lucien. A soft heart was considered a weakness. Second-guessing actions, akin to hesitation. Aurelius is young, in the throes of adolescence, and he has a degree of intellect that makes relating to others more than just difficult. He needs people on his level, or at least, people who understand, for him to react in any way 'normally'. Lucien had gone through a similar, if not slightly subdued, stage himself. Vicente remembers well.

Aurelius Avis is, at his base, a private, detached young man who valued excellent work before anything else. The fire and passion in the hunt, he found uninteresting. He was elected by his superiors for promotion- when he got older, of course, Aurelius himself had reminded Vicente -simply because, as was the fact, Aurelius got matters done and he got matters done quickly and effectively with little fuss. Oh, he wined and he complained, but he did it. He worked, and he worked well.

He knew what it was he had to be doing, and he had no, absolutely _no_, reservations.

Lucien had been the same. Exactly, the same. Only there was one, important, fundamental difference between the two.

Aurelius Avis and Lucien Lachance both raised themselves initially, but, the key difference is that while Lucien Lachance was trained further by assassins, Aurelius Avis was trained further by Imperial watchmen.

That one, simple, difference is enough to create a rift the size of the Sea of Ghosts between them.

And it does not make for pleasant interaction.

Vicente had met Captain Phillida once, and he knows, now, as he watches Aurelius work from across the room, that he can see the older watchmen here, in this boy. Not in any way hereditary ways, but the way Aurelius held himself, the way he spoke. It got Phillida down to a tee.

He was a watchman, through and through.

And while his perception of assassins might be a little broader, there is still the same... animosity, between a lawman and a criminal.

Lucien in return associated with Aurelius after his own fashion, with an accompaniment of snappishness and clear elder superiority.

Aurelius was remarkably respective of his elders, and, no matter how begrudgingly, Lucien was a distinct member of that group. Both father and son did not strictly like one another, but they recognised each other for what they were - at best, competitors, rather than strictly enemies, and therefore treated one another with a degree of cool civility and curtness.

They never spoke to one another then what was necessary. Never held a conversation about familiar topics.

This, sadly, was not the same with everyone in the sanctuary.

Antoinetta Marie, it became obvious quickly, seemed to love Aurelius wholeheartedly in some manic appreciation of skill. Antoinetta liked her elder sisters; she was frequently drawn to Lucien's easy leadership and characteristic nature; but she adored Aurelius with a ridiculous, loverlike devotion that almost made Vicente pity the child. Aurelius was not forgiving. Antoinetta was. She seemed generally unaware that she made Aurelius uneasy, an impressive feat, it seemed. Even the Listener hadn't achieved this level of concern.

Antoinetta wasn't just accommodating; she simply expanded, with great good humour and faith, to fill any space you happened to put her in.

Which was what made Aurelius, in person, much more wary of the bubbly assassin than any of the others. He wasn't sure what to make of her. It was highly likely that Aurelius 'education' on assassins was rather one sided. A cheerful assassin? It probably took him by surprise.

So it was Antionetta, not Lucien, that had driven Aurelius away from the sanctuary that day.

Vicente found him in the chapel undercroft, Lucien in tow, and walked in to find him wafting a book of some description over a smoking corpse. Aurelius looked up when they entered, the marks of mild irritation and frustration pulling at his features.

"So far," he states, conversationally. "I have fried the heart, crisped the aorta and left behind a terrible puncture wound."

Aurelius looks down at the corpse with a snarl.

"This isn't a good day for experimenting, it appears."

"On the populace's dead?" Vicente asked, looking at the nearby opened coffin with a small frown.

"Anyone who gives a toss about the apparent condition of dead people, particularly strangers, have too much to be concerned about, and should probably revert their attention to something else that _matters_." Aurelius replies. Vicente ticks his head to the left.

"Your accent has changed."

"I'm practicing."

"Ah."

"Could go' speakin' like a real Kvatch lad, I could." Aurelius grumbles, his usual Kvatch drawl deepening. "Shouldn't go doin' it though." He turns his attention back towards the book in his hand, and with bloodied fingers, flips through numerous pages of another book. His accent has changed again upon speaking a third time. "The body is fine. The one back there, I mean. Looks fine. Phillida shouldn't be put off. I would thank you for the armour, but since I'm standing in uniform, giving a member of the Dark Brotherhood a 'thank you' would be blasphemy."

"Phillida has a reason to be put off?"

Aurelius hums under his breath. "Think of Phillida like a hound. He's always, when on the hunt or no, smelling out prey. Always. All it takes is for him to get a clue and he'll be on you faster than a pit of sharks."

"You know about sharks?"

"I've read about them. Don't live in Cyrodiil - and they don't swim in pits." He snorts then, shaking his head. "Phillida the Shark Hound. _There_ we go."

"Cyrodiil has slaughter fish."

"I'm not _that_ cruel, Vicente."

The Vampire laughs shortly. "How soon will you be returning?"

Aurelius makes a noise, throwing himself back onto a nearby chair, both of his arms propped upwards by his elbows to avoid the blood from getting on himself or anything else. "Honestly? I expect to be promoted to a different area. Eighteen next month, and while the traditional promotion for young officers is twenty one years, I don't have a specific family line to lean on. Then again, Phillida likes to keep me nearby. It's up to the terrifying depths of Legion bureaucracy I'm afraid." He shrugs. "Still, youngest Imperial Watchmen in recent history. There's one for the books."

"You don't seem to like the sound of that."

"I hate the idea of having a reputation that has nothing to do with my work. I mean, sure, 'youngest' can be perceived as a success story, but the way I see it, the system would run an awful lot more smoothly if people focused a little less on family-name and age, and more on the fact that this fella', right here, Aurelius Avis- son of a common city whore and a murderous psychopath, faced down the Listener and _won_." Aurelius laughs then. "Not like I can actually tell people about that."

Vicente nods. "Whatever you tell them, do remember our agreement."

"I'd shake your hand, but you're stickler for manners."

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**

* * *

Lucien hangs back when Vicente leaves. Aurelius can tell.

Don't ask him how. He just does.

"You're a nosy little cockbite, aintcha." Aurelius greets eloquently, pointedly shoving the corpse off of the table and into the coffin on the floor. It lands heavily, unceremoniously, and Aurelius sighs. Fifth attempt was a failure. He'd compare notes, but his hands... no, he'll write it up later. He's got other things to be doing. "I mean, we're fucking done here and you're still sticking a stake in my business."

Lucien draws himself up to his full height and does that thing with the thunder eyes and the flared nostrils. "Charming as ever." He snipes. Aurelius shrugs.

"What the fetching Oblivion do you want?" Aurelius mutters, grabbing the neck of a nearby beer bottle with his teeth and tipping it upwards with practiced skill so he doesn't have to use his hands. He doesn't say anything, Lucien. Just stares with this look of permanent contempt.

"Nothing." He kills the long silence with a patronising bite and sighs. "I am here because I am bored."

"Bullshit! Vicente too busy sucking on necks and stabbing unfortunates to pay attention to you?"

"He _is_ busy." The man who is mostly chin mutters, the pout in his tone loud like a big fat unloved troll in the quiet of the morning.

"And you ain't invited." Aurelius concludes, wisely. Lucien prickles. He's very... prickly in general.

"Apparently not."

"Hmph." Aurelius takes another acrobatic sip of his drink. There is an awkward pause. He just wishes that Lucien would go the Oblivion away, he's not in the mood for family therapy. "I got a question for you. Since when has my life been any of your damn business?"

Cold as ice. But he's unfazed. He's always unfazed. Aurelius has the sudden, horrific realisation that in that respect, they are exactly the same.

And he makes his mind up then and there.

If this is what Aurelius could become, he's is going to try damn hard to make sure he never does. This isn't the kind of man he doesn't want to be. What kind of man does he want to be? Aurelius doesn't know. He's a boy. He won't know. But he doesn't want to be this. No... He scowls at the man a lesser intelligence might call his father.

"You have always been my business." Lucien says, and then, as an afterthought. "I watched your Mother die."

Aurelius blanches and nearly snorts beer out his nose. The burn of alcohol and pain scours his nose and makes is eyes blur up. Lucien, meanwhile, stares at him like an emotionless thrall as Aurelius coughs and hacks and chokes his way through the blur of pain and poorly brewed beverage.

"What? You want an invitation or something?" Aurelius spits at him. "Fine. You're clearly dying to tell so go right ahead."

He doesn't even pause for dramatic effect.

"I was in town and she was one of my preferred." He doesn't blink, but regards Aurelius with something like interest. But it's wrong. All wrong. "She doesn't remember and I never told her." He pauses. There's not a trace of anything in his voice. Not remorse, not apology, not pity. Nothing. That hits home. Aurelius doesn't look at him. "She was going to abort you but I... persuaded her not to."

_Crack_. Aurelius puts the bottle down before he harms himself. It clanks emptily against the table.

"You sick bastard." He murmurs, cold with rage but numb, tingly, and he seems unable to move or think clearly. He doesn't _know_ what to think.

He hasn't spoken about his mother to anyone. Not Phillida. Not... well, not anyone. Ever. He was, what? Fifteen when she died. That was a long time ago. His life has completely changed to the point of unrecognition since then. Too different. He doesn't know what to do, really.

Funny that; you ask Aurelius how to kill a man, and he can give you two hundred and forty six ways to do so. You ask him what a man has done that day and he can list the activities for you as easily as he could, perhaps, toss a ball or swing a punch. But ask him to mourn, to do the simplest of the simple, and he doesn't know. Ask him to relate, for once, to do something so basic one shouldn't have to ask, and he can't.

It's probably why Phillida _doesn't_ ask.

"Oh? And you can honestly tell me that you are no different?" Lucien says, coldly, and damn if that arrogance isn't ten-feet thick. How Aurelius has gone so long without strangling the giant shit is beyond him, but then, they've never talked like this before.

"That's not what I fucking meant." Aurelius is confused and he hates being confused. Heck, Aurelius had disliked and ignored her all those years, but... "Did she really kill herself, or did you?" He asks. "I was too little to ever be told. But I knew..."

Aurelius wouldn't put it past him. He really, really wouldn't put it past him. He stares him down, and he realises, that actually, he's not afraid of Lucien. He's not terrified at all. Just angry. _Go on._ He thinks. _I dare you to lie to me now_.

"I did not kill her." He says, finally. "But I did help her. She wasn't sober enough to position the knife herself. But I would have, if she had not."

Now Aurelius is curious.

"Why?"

"She was a threat. She would have interfered."

"With the Brotherhood?"

"Yes."

"So what about me?"

"I would have tried, if I knew. You left Kvatch quickly, and were... a lot more formidable than I was expecting when we finally did clash. You had changed since I last saw you in Kvatch. I actually didn't recognise you until you confronted me."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Aurelius mutters, and burns for a pint of something hard and sour in his stomach. Meanwhile, the man in front of him is mentally squirming. Trust him, Aurelius knows a squirm when he sees it, and the bastard is squirming. Like a worm that's gotten too fat for its hole.

Aurelius ate a worm once. He was two and a bit. It was gross. He wouldn't recommend it.

"Because despite how much I argued against it, you are becoming a permanent fixture in future investments." He grits out through the clenched, finely-shaped jaw that was, most unfortunately, passed on to Aurelius.

Aurelius gives him a scathing look. "Oh, you poor thing." But then he thinks of something, and tilts his head. "So why not kill me too?" He asks. The gold plated question. "I mean, you tried." And failed, he wants to say, but that can easily be rectified, and Aurelius' shortsword is out of arm's reach.

"You were..." Lucien works his jaw, mulls it over like fine wine. "An investment. Technically." He elaborates, idly smoothing his hair back. "You were an extension. A corrupted, impure, not to mention stunted extension, but nonetheless."

Did he just call Aurelius short? He better not have just called Aurelius short, or he swears-

"I gave you your name. Did you know? After your mother."

Aurelius blinks. No, he didn't know. He wonders, now, what happened that day? And what happened seventeen years afterwards. He didn't do anything to stop her. What if he had? Would things be different?

Does any of it matter for shit now?

Aurelius sits down at the table he was working at, and because he's more watchmen then he is sociopath, he sits in the precise imitation of Phillida without actually thinking about it. The squared shoulders, sure posture, everything. He sets his hands down flat, firm, against the table.

"Well, thanks for fucking nothing then. I've been told time and time again that I look more like a Marcus." He replies eventually, steering well clear of the hatred threatening to take him over. "Figures." He shrugs, and moves forwards. "You know what the truth is?" His eyes, ember like the lovechild of a hawk and a cobra, narrow.

"Please. Enlighten me."

"You're not sorry, and you're not here 'cause you give a crap about owning up. You're here 'cause the only thing in the world you even remotely care about is affected. And you know what? I'm fine with that."

He looks almost surprised. It's true. Aurelius is fine with that. He's a fetcher and he fucked Aurelius over, but like it makes any difference being sorry now.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I might be your son, but you had fuck-all to do with me. And I don't blame you for that. I don't care. You're a sick, fucked-up bastard, but don't tell me that you were just doing it for yourself, because you weren't. You could have killed us both seventeen years ago. I can't fault you for that."

Aurelius thinks he'd look baffled if he had a clue how.

"But spare me the lecture about my past 'cause I don't give a crap. I am not ecstatic about who I am, and I know I'm not a good man, or try to be. And I am the way I am because of all the shit I've been through, and I wouldn't change it. So thanks, but no thanks for nothing. And yeah, I'm the sick little non-lovechild of some asshole in Brotherhood armour some woman you wish never existed. We're all the blend of two people. We can let that define us if we want. But what you need to understand is that nobody owns me. Not you, not her, not Phillida tromping around up there." He jerks a thumb up at the outdoor world way over yonder and frowns.

Call Aurelius crazy (and Aurelius is, bonkers, nutty, off-his-rocker barmy) but he thinks he spies a tiny flicker of respect in those bottomless pits of his.

"You know what your problem is?" Aurelius grunts. "You look at stuff... at people, and you only see where they came from. The thing is, do you ever think about where they might be going instead?"

He doesn't waste a beat.

"And where are you going, Aurelius?" He asks, softly. Now it's his turn to grin like a smug git.

"Right now? For a stiff drink and a sleep, because I've been awake for forty-six hours and I'm starting to feel the strain." He stretches languidly as Lucien does that twitchy thing again. "_Then_, I'm probably listening to your mortal enemy bitch about me getting myself into trouble, again."

Quiet.

"And then?"

Aurelius deflates, and feels his smug grin contort into something more genuine.

"Like the heck I know. But then, isn't that half the fun of it?"

"You are right." He turns away, clasps his hands behind his back, all business "I am not sorry."

Something stings in Aurelius' chest. Being the unsung victim sucks. "Course you're not."

"But, for what it is worth..."

Aurelius' head snaps up. He can't see his face. The back of his head seems to grapple with the ungraspable.

"I do...regret..." He trails off, hesitates. His shoulders slump imperceptibly "I do regret."

Aurelius takes the olive branch and snaps it in two.

"That was really fucking painful for you, wasn't it?" He says, scathingly. "Just go. Phillida will track me down at any moment and I don't need your insides decorating the walls."

The Investigator doesn't hear to see him go, but he does feel his absence like a sigh of terrible relief and an aching emptiness, and Aurelius feels, again, the sensation of having lost something he never even had.

He hears Phillida, however, and it takes the man a moment or two to re-orientate himself once he gets into the undercroft, and slightly longer for him to pick out Aurelius among the furniture. He's exactly as Aurelius remembers him, but then, something is different.

Aurelius stands up, turns towards Phillida and walks forwards until they are at a respectable distance. His eyes are caught on what is wrong, and Phillida looks down at his chestplate mournfully.

The Investigator opens his mouth to speak.

"Congratulations on your promotion, sir."

* * *

**»**THE**PRINCIPLS**OF**REASONING**DEDUCTION**«**


End file.
